


I, Lifesaver

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 91,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service. Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul"





	1. I, Lifesaver

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

~ CHAPTER 1 ~ 

November 1998 

If I see one more abbreviation of the Secret Service as "SS," I think I'll scream. I sure hope most people don't associate us with the Gestapo. 

On the other hand, such a fearsome reputation has its own advantages. If you believe that we're likely to shoot you on the spot, you should be less inclined to risk attracting our attention. That probably cuts down a bit on the sheer number of counterfeit cases. 

Another thing that would reduce our work by far is if the Treasury instigated some of those hard-to-duplicate safety measures, like so many other world currencies have, such as holographic or 3-D imprinting techniques. But no: the American greenback is too familiar, too comforting, too trusted for its long-standing design to be altered in any way. A _political_ decision, of course. If only some of those politicians would try their hand at chasing counterfeiters personally, maybe then they'd come to their senses. 

Wait. Politicians - sense? Get real. 

The Service really is like two separate agencies in one: the half that chases funny money, and the half that protects those who waste the real stuff best. Okay, I'm feeling cynical right now. Technically it's one organization, and all of its operatives are supposed to be proficient in both angles. Still, just about everyone has a preference for one aspect or the other. 

That is, those who've actually _done_ both. I've been here four years and I still haven't had the chance to try protection yet. No one's dared come right out and said that bodyguarding is no job for a woman, but I can read it as plain as anything on my boss's face. 

I don't see how personal protection work can possibly be more of a risk than tracking down the so-called white-collar crooks who make their own money. Most of them are a lot more dangerous than the average citizen thinks. One crime often leads to another: blackmail, extortion, murder... It's just a bit unnerving to remember that you're up against people who all too often wouldn't hesitate to kill to protect their interests. Anyone who's afraid for his skin or lacks confidence in his aim shouldn't be in any form of law enforcement - or any serious form of crime, for that matter. 

Well, so much for inclusive language. Now they've got _me_ doing it. Of course, I'm slightly outnumbered here... 

Yeah, I like the detective work, the undercover work, and the subterfuge. I get a real charge out of beating these villains at their own game, and a huge satisfaction from cleaning up the streets just a bit more. Still, I'd like to at least _try_ protection, and see if I like it too. 

For one thing, a bodyguard can't _possibly_ have as much paperwork as I do right now. That last bust won't be officially over for days yet if this swath of reports has any say in the - 

"Reilly." 

I look up fast. "Sir?" 

Jeff Hardcourt is doing his genie impression again. For such a big man, he sure has a soft tread. I swear he gets a perverse delight out of deliberately startling us. 

This approach is bad enough in a place where the employees have developed hair-trigger nerves. It's even worse when he's your boss; you don't want to draw on _him_. 

Uh-oh - he doesn't look too happy. What's the crisis this time? 

"It would seem that you've got your wish at last. The new Bartlet administration needs more female agents on protection." 

Oh, _wow._ Just like that, while I'm actually thinking of it, my dream comes true. 

I'd better not be too effusive. Not in keeping with a bodyguard's image of control. "Thank you, sir. That's very good news to me." 

He looks even less happy. "I sure hope so, Colleen." 

Wait a sec; my ever-unsmiling supervisor never uses my first name. He always treats me just like the men - except when he thinks a matter is _really_ too dangerous for... 

That must be it. He's afraid that I'll get myself hurt or killed for the sake of some politician. Of course he has to face that truth about every man he has in the field... but I'm the first woman he's sent out into that situation personally. 

Amazing: the brass of the Secret Service really does care at times. 

I'd better not let that get out. After all, we have a reputation to uphold. 

* * *

December 1998 

A lot of my friends and family have asked me this before: why would any sane individual want to risk his or her life for a stranger - and a politician at that? Lots of folks seem to think that a few less politicians wouldn't be such a bad thing. 

Well, how much different is this from going to war? Your nation's security and/or honor is at stake. You know that you could all too easily die in the line or return from the front maimed for life. But it's still your duty to contribute. 

The truth is, as much as I like living, my life would be a small price to pay for safeguarding our leaders and our stability. No Head of the Nation could hope to do his very vital job if he had to worry about his safety every single minute. And there'll always be people who think it's a civil liberty to enforce their views with violence, or who just want attention, or who are simply too unbalanced to have any idea of the damage they're doing. No, you'd never get me into public office or any position of power, thanks. Or fame, for that matter. Far better to fade into the background, and be ready in case someone tries something stupid. I'm the type who prefers to protect others rather than be protected myself. 

Naturally I followed the last campaign, like most civic-minded citizens. Our new President is a very engaging personality. It'll be interesting to see what he's capable of - if he doesn't waste this once-in-a-lifetime chance he's got. He may be just one more person who got himself elected to high office, but both that office and the man currently holding it are really quite magnetic. I'm not sure why; it's something that hardly anyone has managed to express accurately. But my colleagues all agree that it's more than worth the risk of their own lives. Our leader - no matter who he is - has been socked with a tremendous responsibility and a whole lot of history. He must be protected at all costs. His life is more valuable than our own. Period. 

Besides, it's an honor in itself to maintain the standards of the finest security force in the history of the world. 

A lot of movies make protection duty look both glamorous and exciting. Shows you what the writers know about reality. Truth be told, a lot of it is dead boring. The vast majority of bodyguards go through their entire career without once having to act suddenly and violently. Our presence alone is a huge deterrent, especially if we're backed by the formidable name of the United States Secret Service. Still, all of us are taught to be just like a coiled spring, always ready for anything. By the end of your shift, you can feel totally exhausted even if you did nothing more than stand around. These days, after work I need an hour or two for some brisk exercise, to wind down enough that my mind doesn't feel all tense and suspicious of everyone around while I'm off-duty as well. 

No matter what people may tell you, we as a species are still pretty basic animals at times. The instinct for self-preservation is natural and deep-grained, but it has to be leashed if you're going to protect someone else. Fortunately for _everyone_ concerned, most agents never find out how they might have reacted in such a situation. 

You know, even after all my training, I'm not absolutely sure how I'd react, either. I'm not _eager_ for a crisis just so I can prove myself - but if one develops, I pray that I can do my job right. It's a pretty scary thought at times, thinking you might freeze up or flinch away in the vital second when someone else's life depends on you. 

Now VIP protection is much more general and far less personal than genuine bodyguard duty, such as for the First Family - but it's a fine training ground, and I need to know this sort of thing cold before I'm assigned to the Vice President's wife or anyone else. How to watch crowds for trouble, how to identify and secure open areas, how to drive both defensively and aggressively; things like that. I'm used to blending in and drawing as little attention to myself as possible; that's how you build a case against lawbreakers. Now I'm supposed to be as _conspicuous_ as possible and scare them off _before_ they try to break the law. It's a whole different mindset. 

I'll admit it: being female is a drawback. I don't have the physical strength or stamina of my male comrades, no matter how much I work out, since they all have to work out as well. Also, any idiot who wants to try out our security procedures would naturally assume that I'm the weak link. However, in a race I can move faster than most of these guys, and I can shoot as well as the best. Come on, people - I wouldn't even be here if I hadn't measured up to the Service's extremely high standards in the first place. 

I guess I'll just have to be even _more_ vigilant. 

A lot of diplomats have this way of pretending that the security forces around them don't exist, or are subhuman and not worthy of so much as a nod. I can't let that get to me. They're in their own peculiar situation: they naturally want to see more of our country while they're here, and security doesn't make that easy. Even so, it's a real ego boost to know that you merit a Secret Service escort, and no foreign visitor ever placed under our protection has been harmed on American soil. 

I have to watch for other complications, too. Some foreign cultures have their own views of what a woman should and shouldn't do, and if they complain the Service will comply. How can you expect a man to believe that a woman can defend him from harm, when he's spent his life believing that women exist solely to be protected themselves? Ah, well... the customer is always right. 

For those who don't complain outright, it can be a real treat on its own - I get the chance to demonstrate my very best, work with my male partners as an equal, and show _everyone_ just how able and _valuable_ women can be. 

Then there are those who may get the mistaken impression that I'm there solely as a _personal_ escort. That kind of scene has serious potential for entertainment, especially if I were called upon to defend myself. The look of pained disbelief on a guy's face when I dust his ass is something I never tire of. It puts the final shine on a counterfeit bust. It would almost be worth the international uproar to see that expression again. 

Um... no; I really shouldn't embarrass my country. My new boss has promised that he'll sound out the problem assignments and keep me elsewhere. You just have to face reality. 

So far, this breaking-in stage has been more fun than anything else, the formal receptions especially. Like tonight. I hardly ever got to dress up in my old Treasury post. Also, I never thought that any designer could create such impressive dresses that have both secret firearm pockets and Lycra-Gore-Tex linings. These details would blow the minds of the biggest fashion models. "Should I wear the Armani with the utility belt of Austrian crystals, or should I wear the Versace with the built-in full body armor? Decisions, decisions..." 

Whoops; no snickering on the job. 

But I have no doubt that we'd all be feeling a lot less comfortable hosting the Russian premier fifteen years ago than we are today. God, if anything had happened to Gorbachev when he was here -! Quite aside from tipping the tenuous balance of world power, we as an organization and as a nation would've never lived it down. Not that any sane person could have wanted the Cold War to explode into a _hot_ war back then, or would likely try to make such a pointless statement now... but we can't count on every person with a gun to be sane. 

Besides, it would still be a slap to the United States if we can't protect the international visitors who come in peace. 

At least _these_ days there are somewhat fewer reasons to attack _any_ world leader. 

Except the President himself, of course. 

I guess that's the price you pay for heading up the last superpower left. 

* * *

January 1999 

All right, it's not the White House - a fact that our new Vice President must be acutely conscious of - but for my money the Mansion certainly ranks as the country's _second_ most impressive address. It's huge, it's handsome, and it's private... and the Observatory grounds are simply gorgeous. I don't know who originally coined "Clover Leaf," but the name fits; it's a nature lover's paradise well inside the most important city in the world. 

Since the inaugural chaos last week, things are beginning to calm down. The Hoyneses are moved in and seem to be fairly well settled. There haven't been too many public appearances by either yet, but that should change before much longer. Meanwhile, I'm learning the floor plan of this sprawling manor, and the ropes as well. There are similarities to VIP protection, and differences as well. 

For one thing, you're almost always at the same location, rather than constantly shifting from one day to the next. Oh, sure, the Veep (as no one would dare say to his face) gets around more than the President himself, and his detail spends a lot of time guarding hotels and conference rooms. Personally, I'm glad to stay put for awhile. It's nerve-racking to have to check out new places all the time, wondering what potential security breach will crop up next. Here all the defenses have been in place for some time, and are well-established. Now I'm just maintaining the mechanism, rather than building it from the ground up. 

Hey - careful, girl. Don't get complacent. Why anyone would want to harm a comparatively powerless individual like the Vice President eludes me, but I'm sure some fanatic or nutcase will find an excuse if they try. 

Then again, the man is second in line to the most powerful office in the world. His first threat is abduction and replacement by an impostor. But for that to accomplish anything worthwhile, they'd have to take out the President himself, and no one can believe _that_ would be easy. No, if _I_ were planning some kind of covert takeover, I'd replace the Speaker of the House instead; he's in third place, and a far easier target. _Then_ I'd take out Hoynes. That would force the President to appoint a new VP - but before he did, he'd almost certainly meet with the Speaker first... and place himself alone with _my_ man on the inside. And _then_... 

Okay, this is not just random daydreaming. We've already debated a lot of scenarios like that one. We have to anticipate every possibility so that we can defend against it. If I come up with a plot on my own that the strategists haven't foreseen, they'll want to know. Besides, imagination helps keep the brain sharp. 

These night shifts are especially dull, not that I expected otherwise. What I _didn't_ expect was hearing that I won't be stuck there exclusively until I've gained a certain amount of experience. A lot of companies would do that: give the least desirable post to the rookies. But in the Service there have to be veteran agents on all shifts at all times, so novices are spread out and rotated as well. _We_ have to learn all the posts, too. 

What a relief. Much as I enjoy patrolling in the peaceful dark, it can weigh on you after long enough. 

At least it's not eight solid hours of imitating a statue. Not even the Service can handle that. I also spend some time in the briefing room each day. We all have to know about changes in the established routine, or any deviation from the norm. Oh, and I've since found out that there's paperwork no matter where I go. 

In reality, most of our work is preventative, and not just with our very visible presence. There's always someone searching files and databases, tracking potentially dangerous suspects. The best thing is if we can ID troublemakers _before_ they try anything. Between death threats - either written or verbal - past histories, police reports, parole grants and I can't recall what else, we've got a lot of ground to cover. It's not exciting, but it sounds like a welcome relief when you're coming off four hours of motionlessness against a wall. 

Then too, the training never stops. And I thought I knew how to drive _before_. Trust me, these armored limousines are like nothing else on the road. You'd never believe some of the moves we put them through, or what they're actually capable of. Of course, that's one more advantage for us, if someone starts shooting: they know it's supposed to be impregnable, but they won't expect a vehicle that size to be so fast, or so maneuverable... or so downright dangerous. They're like tanks, like weapons in their own right. We practice running other cars off the road, pulling 180s, smashing barricades; things like that. It's really cool to watch - from the outside. Trust me, when you're in the front passenger seat, it takes on a whole new perspective. The driver is in control, not you. There are times when I had to wait for the car to stop before I could be sure I was still alive. But I have to get used to that heart-stopping sensation _now_. 

That brings up another point: trusting your partners. Not only am I responsible for the protectee, but I also have to rely on _and_ watch out for my teammates. So long as our charge is safe, our next priority is to back up each other. 

Someday I'd like to get my pilot's license. If only to make sure that I can hold my own in the air as well, because the plane exercises are even more terrifying than the car training. We do counter-hijacking procedures, aerobatics, water ditching, fire drills... I've learned first-hand what it's like to be blinded by smoke, where you can't see, can't breathe, can't _think._ From now on I always take time to memorize the interior of every aircraft, and exactly where everyone is sitting, so I'll know where to go and what to feel for if the cabin becomes dark or flooded. 

That's a bit more of a challenge on a 747, like _Air Force One_ last week. I had a very hard time getting my head out of the clouds. (Ha! Joke!) It's so impressive, and so damned _big._ A truly magnificent craft. Oh, and as to the kind of maneuvers _that_ plane can do, most people would never believe me. But I've been there. For a bird that huge, that heavily-defended, it can deprive you of your stomach with surprising ease. 

Other (ground) drills have also been far more intense than anything I've seen before. We practice all sorts of assault, siege and hostage retrieval scenarios, over and over. Everyone on detail has to work as a single unit, smooth and fast. I can now speak from experience that our ultra-hi-tech, wonderfully discreet body stockings will indeed stop a bullet from penetrating... but sadly, they can't do much for the actual impact. After two weeks I'm still showing a bruise. I won't forget anytime soon, and I'll definitely react more quickly in the future. 

In this job, the key word is _focus._ You might have to engage Alert mode in a single second. It's hard to describe: it's more than automatic pilot, or a simple robot programmed to function one way. Sure, we're always vigilant; you get to the point where your nerves just tingle, you're so on edge. But the moment something happens your whole mindset shifts into warp drive. You've got to concentrate one hundred percent on the job at hand. Forget everything else - especially your own safety. Nothing exists except containing the situation at once. You have to be in total control of yourself, as precise as a computer, unhesitating and rapid-fire in your decisions. Lives depend on it. 

Here comes "Halogen" down the hall. As usual, he ignores me. He's supposed to; besides, I'm wearing a pantsuit that blends right in with my fellows. And I tie my hair back. Some people just don't like red hair, although I'm not entirely sure why. At least the Irish love it. 

Here's another glaring difference from my previous assignments: we spend all our time guarding just one couple, so even while I'm only on hall duty I get to know something about them. "Halogen" is a pretty handsome guy, but he seems to carry a real chip on his shoulder. Of course, President Bartlet beat him out of the nomination and then invited him on the ticket in order to woo the South. Not exactly a match made in heaven. 

I won't deny that the Veep can be quite the public speaker. Mr. Charming. But I'm not sure I'd like him for President. There's just something that makes me uneasy: a vein of deviousness, deeper than anything I've seen in anyone else, diplomat or otherwise. Something that goes beyond even the expected political ruthlessness. 

None of this is my business. Still, when you're on hall duty for hours at a time, you have lots of freedom to think. 

As for "Hallmark," I'm taking special notice of her. I'll be on her detail once my indoctrination in "Clover Leaf" is complete. She too is quite attractive... and yet, I'd swear that something of what I sense in her husband is present here as well. 

I don't know. I never speak to either, so maybe I'm wrong. I rather hope so... 

* * *

March 1999 

Well, this is my first day on _real_ protection duty. Time to finally be introduced to the person who will be my direct responsibility for the next while. 

So this is what people mean when they talk about butterflies. I feel like I've just graduated from high school into a whole new world. 

It's not that I really think there's a genuine danger factor about guarding the wife to the Vice President. It's not even that I've never actually done this before. It's just... _her._

Alastair Michener is still talking; I hope I haven't missed much. 

"Something else, Reilly: treat her just like you'd treat the First Lady. I'm not kidding." 

"Yes, sir." I've already heard whispers about that. If John Hoynes wishes he were President, his wife wishes the same even more. 

"And for God's sake, don't _ever_ refer to her as the _Second_ Lady." 

"Understood." 

Michener's persistent nervousness isn't helping me any. Okay, he's the head of "Clover Leaf" security and heads "Halogen" detail personally; he's got enough reason to feel important, and stressed. But seriously, the Vice President just isn't in much danger. 

Except from lunatics, of course. The bane of our existence. 

Somehow I doubt that mentioning this would calm my new boss much. It's not doing anything for me, either. 

Mrs. Hoynes has her own office/study, but few staff. There really isn't a lot of purpose for the wife of VPOTUS (that's another abbreviation we must never use aloud). Not like the First Lady, for sure. Yet another unwelcome comparison. What a life for her. 

"Ma'am, this is Colleen Reilly." 

Now that we're finally face to face, I can see that she's as tall as I am, although more slightly built. Her features are classically beautiful; hair, make-up and clothes are perfect. I wonder how much time she spends on her appearance. She can't have a whole lot else to do at times. 

But again, there's something positively chilly in her eyes. 

Her handshake is firm enough, though not as exuberant as a lot of politicians tend to be, men and women both. "Carolina Hoynes." 

"An honor, ma'am." I don't know if she's evaluating me or actually testing me, but I take care not to apply any more pressure than she does. This isn't supposed to be a contest, of strength or anything else. 

"I hear you're from Texas as well." Only now does she smile, as though I wouldn't be quite acceptable otherwise. 

"Yes, ma'am." Well, I am originally, but I doubt she wants to hear a full bio. Especially about the move to Jersey some years back... 

And what was that old Southern axiom about not trusting women named after states? 


	2. I, Lifesaver 2

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 2 ~ 

April 1999 When it comes to picking code names for protectees we have a fairly wide range of choice, but there are certain guidelines. At least two syllables, no more than three; a clear sound, easy to identify over radio channels; not an actual city or state, or any other place unless it's very obscure, so that we're not wondering if the message is about a protectee or a destination. Nouns tend to work best, but there is a finite number of them in the English language, and anything likely to come up in common conversation would be just stupid. Occasionally we'll even invent a word, or create a new compound. Sometimes the protectee gets to choose, so long as it conforms to regs. Now and then, we the rank and file are allowed to make suggestions. It can be a bit of a contest between agents to think of something that relates to the protectee at least a little - without being insulting, of course. 

Right now there are twenty-six people under regular protection, either full-time or part-time, so they get their own code names. Besides the First Family, the Second Family, and three sets of close staff members, there's the former President and his wife, the House Speaker, the National Security Advisor, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretaries of State, Defense and the Treasury... I'm sure I'm forgetting someone else. You can add a number of casual advisors and personal friends to the list, too; they're around often enough to be accorded the honor. And we have to know them all, by sight, name _and_ code. (I simply love the name for the White House physician: "Sawhorse." Whoever came up with that deserves an honorable mention.) 

Then there are the locations: the White House is "Crown," the Capitol is "Punchbowl," Camp David is "Cactus," Andrews AFB is "Acrobat," and the Bartlet homestead is "Horseradish." _Then_ there are the vehicles: "Angel" ( _Air Force One_ ), "Nighthawk" ( _Marine One_ ), "Stagecoach" (the President's limo), "Chariot" (the First Lady's limo), "Landau" (the VP's limo)... Man, there are so many that I try to run through them all in my memory at least once a shift. It's a real necessity. 

Considering how sensitive the Vice President is to playing second banana in just about every way imaginable, "Halogen" was a good choice to salve his ego. Certainly he's a bright politician. And "Hallmark" well suits his wife: she's never less than perfectly turned out, like a stamp of high quality. 

It's just... there are times when I wonder if maybe she's a bit of a trophy wife as well... 

And there are times when I wonder who really wears the pants in this family. 

For one thing, they rarely go anyplace together, unless it's a really formal do. For another, I haven't seen hardly any hints of affection between them. Of course, they could be the type who prefers not to be demonstrative around employees. That I _can_ see. 

Unfortunately, I no longer have any doubts that "Hallmark" is quite the social climber. She's both thrilled at her husband's position and bitter about her own. After all, the wife of the _Vice_ President hardly gets a nod compared to the First Lady. I'm not sure if she really is the woman behind the man, but she does try to give that impression. Maybe she'd be better at politics than she's actually allowed to be. 

Someone who probably knows the inside dope is my partner Cody. He's been on her detail from day one. I really don't want to strike up that conversation, though. Wouldn't be proper. 

On the whole, "Hallmark" ignores me. Frankly, I prefer it that way. I can tell she's not that fond of me, either. Our personalities _are_ very different. Not that personal dislike would stop me from protecting her with my life if need be. 

This doesn't make my work shift any more pleasant, but in the long run it might make things easier. I don't want to start a casual conversation with my protectee when I'm supposed to be on the lookout. A couple of times when we're out she's tried to give me the slip, but I don't think she was ever that serious. I sure hope not: I can't do my job if she won't trust me. Again, maybe she was testing me a bit. I know for a fact that she loves the prestige of having a bodyguard, of all this official concern over her safety, however paranoid it really is. 

The other guys mentioned this before: as a rule your protectee's political bent will mean less to you personally than their general attitude, their sense of humor, and their cooperativeness with security requirements. Most of my fellows were here for the previous President as well, but they really do seem quite indifferent to the recent shift in partisan lines. Considering how much this city is split along those Dem/Rep lines, the Secret Service has always remained very deliberately apolitical. No way are we going to let ourselves be twisted into the equivalent of a private police force. If an administration ever tried something like that, there would be a rash of resignations and a _lot_ of bad press. Even if I myself hadn't voted for our leader, I'd still be willing to protect him... but whether I voted for him or not, I wouldn't let him or his advisors control the way I do my duty. 

No, personality is far more important. Johnson either ignored or bullied his bodyguards. Nixon was positively beloved by comparison. I forget if it was Ford or Carter who had a bad habit of trying to sneak off on his detail and objected to most of the security measures in general. Really, our job is hard enough without the protectees themselves adding to the pressure. 

An even bigger problem for us, though, is when someone under our care wants to be especially discreet. Johnson was also famous, or rather infamous, among the Service for his extramarital arrangements. This can be a real downside; agents must be trustworthy, cooperative and silent. I pray to God that I never have to deal with something like _that_... 

So far, and to my enormous relief, there hasn't been one hint of infidelity here. Still, all agents hear stories. And again, the Hoyneses don't go for any display of closeness at all. Now that doesn't mean that they _aren't_ close. I can't decide if they're lukewarm or simply private. Of course, you wouldn't want them falling over each other in public... but I hate the very thought of being forced to arrange a secret tryst. That'd be a _great_ way to destroy respect for your protectee (who incidentally is your elected representative) and pride in your job at the same time - not to mention that it's a great way for _them_ to risk their career, their public image and probably their marriage as well. 

I don't have a significant other, but if I did I sure hope I wouldn't consider throwing him away just like that... 

Okay, time to bury these specters, thank you. We're leaving for the dinner as soon as "Hallmark" is ready, which should be any moment. I've been out here for over half an hour already... What is it with some people and "fashionably late?" 

I really should have a word with Michener. High heels look great with these long dresses, but they're hellish to stand around in for long. And if it's this bad on thick carpet, imagine what marble floors will do to me after a whole evening. Even a wedge would be better. I know I'm with "Hallmark," not just an ambassador, but still - 

Uh-oh. "Halogen" has arrived. Now I _know_ "Hallmark" is running late. 

"Good evening, Mr. Vice President." 

He stops and looks at me. "Good evening." I believe this is the first time he's actually _noticed_ me. But then, I'm practically barring his path to the room beyond. They naturally have separate dressing-rooms, and I rather doubt that most women like to be barged in on while dressing, even by their husbands. 

He glances at that closed door. "I take it my wife is still making herself presentable?" 

"I'm sure she'll only be another moment, sir." I make eye contact with Michener, in the VP's wake, but he doesn't even nod my way. We're on duty, after all. 

"Halogen" looks at me again, more closely this time. "Well, _you're_ certainly well turned out, Miss...?" 

His tone is absolutely neutral: nothing more than a gentleman offering a simple compliment. Still, I'm raising my barriers another notch, just in case. I'd be flattered if the whole concept weren't like a hefty dose of nitroglycerin. Or strychnine. "Colleen Reilly, sir." 

Though I have to admit, he's more handsome than ever in that tux... 

"John." 

Yike - _how_ did I not hear that door open? 

_Double_ yike. I'm not sure which one of us is in more trouble: him or me. That looks like serious jealousy in "Hallmark's" eye... 

Which implies that she cares for him more than she generally lets on. Good to know. 

I glance back just in time to catch a real gleam of pleasure from "Halogen" in turn, the first I've ever seen. _Definitely_ good to know, since it's aimed at her. 

Oh, _whew_ \- she's smiling back at him. I may survive this yet. 

Nobody can say that Carolina Hoynes is less than beautiful. She's a pro at choosing both style and color to full advantage. And I know she works hard on the "studied casual" effect, as though she _didn't_ spend ages on her makeup and accessories both. With her around, who'd waste time glancing my way? 

Which is exactly what I want, and need. _Any_ woman looks better in a dress than slacks. The only reason I spiff up at all for these things is because I'd stand out even more if I didn't. 

"Excellent." Now was that the Veep's way of praising her appearance, or is he just glad she's finally set to go? I'm not sure. Still, the way he offers her his arm seems a bit warmer than mere formality. I sigh softly in relief before I can stop myself. 

The Second Couple head out; Michener and I fall into step behind them. Even though he's my boss, I totally ignore him. As it should be. 

You know, a tux does wonders for him, too. These standard suits do get boring. 

I'm really getting to like these elaborate events. There are many worse ways to spend an evening. 

So long as nothing happens. 

* * *

June 1999 

Men crack jokes all the time about women and shopping. Heavens, _women_ crack jokes about women and shopping. What makes the whole subject even funnier is that a lot of those jokes are based on fact. 

Now if "Hallmark" wanted, she could have any shop in town deliver samples to her sitting-room, any time. Still, it's always much more fun to get out and browse in person. Why do men find that so hard to understand? But the VP's wife is stuck in a rather odd position: she loves the attention when she goes out... _if_ people know who she is. And not every salesperson will recognize the _First_ Lady, even right in DC itself. 

Then again, recognition leads to unwanted attention - which leads to danger. 

I never expected _this_ tag to my job description, but you sure learn to be adaptable in this career. The secret is to keep things low-key. If I can pull a few store clerks aside on our arrival and _quietly_ give them a head's-up, then things go smoothly on both ends. 

Of course, Cody always tries to trade shifts with me whenever "Hallmark" plans a shopping spree, just so that _he_ doesn't have to stand around racks of women's clothes while she makes up her mind. Men are so touchy about that. I've followed her into the men's department often enough. What's the big deal? 

I think "Hallmark" has begun to notice how her two personal bodyguards switch assignments for occasions like this. She hasn't commented yet, even though I know she enjoys being seen with a large man like Cody; he's far more forbidding than I'll ever be, and makes her feel even more important in the process. But I also wonder if she doesn't prefer a woman's company herself when she shops. She hasn't come right out and asked my opinion on something; that's hoping for a bit much. Still, she probably gets the idea that I enjoy these trips more and am generally less impatient to leave. 

Trust me, you do not want a jittery bodyguard around. 

I wonder what Michener does when "Halogen" decides to go shopping for his wife... Now that is a mental picture. 

Hm, that royal blue dress-suit is very smart on her; it makes her hair even more dramatic raven-black than usual. But it also makes her skin look rather pale... 

Come to think of it, she's been looking pale for a few weeks now. And she's hasn't been eating much. I've seen more than one tray go back to the kitchen at least half-full. 

Oh, damn. Don't tell me... That article on weight loss the other week... If she honestly believes she should be smaller... She's so thin-boned that she doesn't have any weight to spare! And it won't change her _height_ anyway! 

Okay, I'm almost willing to blame the First Lady for this one. _She's_ so petite by comparison. Why do countless women wish they were like her? I like my size, thanks; I'm not thin, but I'm not fat either. I'm strong and healthy. I can hold my own with anyone. 

Now this is a problem. If "Hallmark" is bordering on anorexia or something, what do I do? For the sake of her health, I should do _something_. I'm supposed to protect her, aren't I? Doesn't that include from _herself?_

Her husband should know. The "Clover Leaf" physician should know. But neither should hear it from _me_. I guess that means I'll have to speak with Michener when I get back. 

On the flip side, I can't think of a better way to embarrass her... 

Nuts. What a dilemma. 

Okay, she's going to take the lighter blue suit instead. Maybe she saw that unflattering contrast as well. 

Maybe I should speak directly with her. 

Nope - out of my bounds, big-time. 

We never covered _this_ in the briefings. I really should speak to Michener. 

So, we're on our way. The store manager waited on her himself, and he was very courteous, but anyone else probably thinks we're just too colleagues wandering the mall. Certainly no one could mistake us for mother and daughter... 

But whereas she likes to garner the attention, I prefer to avoid it. Our best camouflage is always when the fewest possible people notice her. 

At least she's not asking me to carry her purchases. We've hashed that out before. Normally I'd be pleased to help, but that's not why I'm here. I've heard that "Halogen" is forever leaving his briefcase behind, trying to get his detail to lug it for him. Sorry, sir; that's not part of the Service. We need to keep our hands free, just in - 

Running footsteps behind me. 

_ALERT._ I whirl instantly, one hand already on my weapon. 

Two young men are racing this way. 

Their hands are empty. I can take 'em. 

Wait - they're not running _to_ us; they're running _past_ us. 

One of them is shouting something: _"The jewelry store's being robbed!"_

Thieves. Almost certainly firearms. I snatch "Hallmark's" arm at once and yank her into the nearest shop entrance. The jewelry store is just down the hall, fifty yards away at most. 

I pull "Hallmark" around a mirrored pillar and pin her there, my free hand on her shoulder. Nobody can see her from the hall, but I can see out. 

Secure the protectee. Let the police do their job. 

Guard against diversionary tactics. 

"Reilly to Thomas. Crime in progress. Watch for diversions." 

The answer crackles in my ear at once. _"Copy, Reilly. What's your twenty?"_

I glance at the nearest product rack... and can't prevent a brief smile. Appropriate. 

"Meet us at the American Eagle loading bay." 

_"Big ten."_

I can hear "Hallmark's" accelerated breathing. For the first time I actually look at her. She's paler than ever. After all the prestige about having her own Secret Service detail, she's finally come face to face with the cold facts behind _needing_ one. 

There's no earthly reason for anyone to attack the wife of the Vice President. You want to pressure him into pressuring the President? Pointless. 

Don't play the odds. Don't gamble with lives. 

Despite all the gun practice and all the counterfeiting busts, I've never killed anyone before in my entire life. But I will if anyone tries _anything_ with me and my protectee. 

"Ma'am, we're leaving right now." I don't care if she argues; I'll drag her along physically if I must. There's no question but that I'm the stronger. 

She just nods, eyes wider than I've ever seen them. At this moment we both know who's really in charge. 

I take another careful look out; people are hurrying away from the action down the hall, but no one else is seeking shelter in here. So much the better. 

I can see the dress shop bag on the floor, in the open, where "Hallmark" dropped it when I first grabbed her. Too bad; we're not going back for it. 

This store has both customers and employees about, all of them standing like so many statues. None appear dangerous, but I'm not putting my weapon away until we're out of here and in the car. 

One woman looks more authoritative than the rest. I place my arm around "Hallmark's" shoulders, the better to direct her and keep her close, and approach. 

"I'm Special Agent Colleen Reilly." My hands are full; I'm not scrambling for my ID. If an automatic pistol isn't sufficient to convince anyone, even at ease rather than aimed... "Take us to your loading dock at once." 

Teeth chattering, the woman obeys. An air of command really does pave the way at times. That's right; everyone else stay back. 

At this exit, surrounded by boxes, I pause cautiously. What's _really_ out there? 

"Hallmark" is almost leaning into me, as though she hasn't much strength left after this fright. 

"Reilly to Thomas. Report." 

_"In position. Coast is clear."_

"We're coming out." I motion to our escort, who has a time fumbling with keys. As soon as she steps away, I throw the portal wide open. 

One second. Two. No sound, no motion. 

I risk a fast glance - and there's the car, with Shawn behind the wheel. He waves. I can see he's watching for everything, too. 

"Let's go, ma'am." I steer her bodily outside. We hurry down the short staircase together and run to the car. I shove her into the back seat; Shawn hits the gas before I can even get the door closed behind me. 

Safe. Maybe. 

"Anything?" I check all windows. 

"Not a hitch. Police are responding." Shawn focuses on the road. He won't slow down for a few blocks at least, just to be sure. 

"Good." I turn to our charge beside me, wedged into the other corner of the sedan's back seat. "Ma'am? Are you all right?" 

She doesn't look good at all. Between the scare and the exertion - and whatever she's doing to herself these days... 

"Just let me... catch my breath..." 

"Of course." I check things out once more. Everything under control. I can now report in. 

"Reilly to Clover Leaf." They'd have been alerted the second I contacted Shawn, and he would've added any other details he had. "Hallmark secure. We're on our way back." 

_"Copy that, Reilly."_ That isn't Michener; he must be off duty today. _"Complications?"_

"Negative. Local hold-up. Police are on it." 

_"Big ten."_

"Out." 

Now at last I can draw a deep breath of my own. I did exactly what I was supposed to do, and my protectee is safe. 

Perhaps safe, but not sound. In fact she looks ready to faint. Not from fear; I know she's got a tougher core than that. No; from lack of strength. I don't like this at all. 

By the time we reach "Clover Leaf," "Hallmark" is strong enough to walk unaided. I'll bet she desperately wants to lie down, but I think I'd better stick with her a bit longer than my regular instructions strictly indicate. 

This is serious. It's not my place to offer advice. 

But somebody has to do something. 

"Ma'am, can I get you anything?" 

She settles wearily onto the couch and leans her head back. "No... thanks." 

Fortunately she hasn't dismissed me outright. Maybe that's my cue to buckle down and just go for it. 

Start off slow. "I'm sorry about your purchase. I'll go back later and see if I can recover it. If not, I'll pick out an identical suit for you." 

She offers a listless wave, her eyes still closed. It's not that important by comparison. 

Do I or _don't_ I? 

"Mrs. Hoynes, you don't look well." 

She doesn't even glance my way. "I'll be fine..." 

_Courage._ "Ma'am, I don't agree. It's not healthy for a person to get exhausted so easily. You're very pale, and you haven't been eating much of late." 

Oh, man, when she _really_ fastens her eyes on you... 

Might as well keep going; I've come this far. But be discreet. No need to _completely_ ruin my career. If this doesn't get the point across... 

"I don't know what the cause is, but I'm worried about you. Maybe it's just some kind of bug. Let me call the physician -" 

_"No."_ The defenses are rising fast... 

Don't stop now. This is for _both_ our benefits. "Ma'am, if you had collapsed today, not only would it have been awful for _you_ , but it would've been hard on _us_ as well. Please, for the sake of your health _and_ your safety -" 

"That will be all." 

Herself has spoken. She just doesn't want to fact the truth, and I can't make her. There's nothing for me to do but comply. 

"Yes, ma'am. Good afternoon." 

Comply, and hope that I won't be getting my pink slip tomorrow. 

And pray that just _maybe_ something of what I said sinks in. 

* * *

July 1999 

The moment I walk through that door, she'll know something's in the wind. 

Actually, for the last week and a half, things have been not too bad. Maybe my audacious comments had an impact after all. I do think "Hallmark" is looking a bit better. There's been no grapevine whisper about sweeping changes per se; still, any improvement is welcome. 

She's even been a bit more... I'm not sure if _appreciative_ is the right word, but at least I've felt more _noticed_. Certainly less ignored. It helps lighten the day. 

Perhaps she just needed a display of concern. I wonder if her husband said anything? Or maybe she's finally realized that you don't need an hourglass figure to be attractive. 

I'm sure glad I didn't hurt her. If I had, I would've been out on my duff within the hour. I guess we managed to build up a bit of trust over the past four months. 

And now I have to bring her _this_ news. 

Her secretary eyes me strangely, but doesn't comment. One of the best perks about my job is the respect people hand me when they _know_ my job. You'd think I was prepared to shoot my way inside if I weren't admitted instantly. 

"Hallmark" greets me with a strange expression of her own. "You're early today." 

I guess it _is_ painfully obvious; we always try hard to be exactly on time, neither early _nor_ late. Late is worse, but early is awkward on its own. 

"Yes, ma'am." I hope she can't tell how I'm deliberately bracing myself for this. "May I speak with you about something?" 

She sighs - not in tiredness, but almost in... defeat. "I think I already know what. You've been upgraded." 

Why am I so surprised? Of _course_ Michener would consult her first! 

Plainly my hesitation is all the confirmation "Hallmark" needs. "The First Lady?" 

The resentment in her tone... 

What else can I say? "I'm afraid so, ma'am." 

How much do you want to bet she isn't fooled by my apparent regret? Who'd believe that this _isn't_ great news for me? Jeez, we're talking the White House! The _First Family!_

I just really do _not_ want to rub it in. Certainly not here. 

"Well, don't be. Obviously I've heard already." She leans back in her chair, bitterness shifting towards resignation. "You did a fine job with that incident last month, and the Secret Service has a shortage of experienced female agents." 

Which is as much to say that the wife of the Vice President can get by with the dregs. Right now I ache for her. 

"Ma'am, I had nothing to do with this decision..." 

"I know you didn't. And I didn't ask for you to be transferred - not even after your... forthrightness that day." She waits for my reaction, but I don't think she finds what she expected. I already knew that myself; if she'd _really_ been ticked off, she never would have tolerated me for an additional ten days. 

"I wish you could stay. You're good, and you're pleasant to be around." She sighs again and glances aside, probably missing the thud of my jaw hitting the floor. This woman does not lightly hand out compliments. "But I can't hold out on the White House." 

This is jealousy, too - a very different kind than usually crops up around affairs of the heart, but jealousy nonetheless. 

"I'll still be here long enough to train my replacement, ma'am. We're getting more women into the Service these days." 

"Then I'm sure she'll be an asset." 

This interview is going far better than I'd dared hope. But then, "Hallmark" knows she can't do much about it. Complaining won't accomplish diddly. 

She does have a cozy, tasteful study. I'm going to miss this whole place. Even though I'm leaving it for the premier residence in the Western World. 

Motion nearby: I turn back. "Hallmark" has risen from her chair... as if she now considers me an equal. Or at least a friend. 

"This is almost two weeks overdue, Colleen, but I am grateful for your concern about my health." 

When this woman smiles, and _means_ it, her whole face warms up. I'm touched; not many people see that smile these days. 

Wait; now there's a hint of real embarrassment. "Sometimes the truth is hard to face." 

I try not to squirm. It's hard hearing a notoriously strong person admit to weakness... 

"As you've probably noticed, I did take your advice." 

Slow, deep exhalation. I can feel my tenseness melt away. "I'm so glad that I could help you, ma'am. In any way at all." 

You know, once you strip away the social and political burden of her husband's role and her own position, Carolina Hoynes can be a fine person to know. 

Uh-oh... that smile is starting to frost over again. I spoke too soon. 

"Well, good luck with your new posting. And who knows? Perhaps one day I'll have you back on my detail again." 

Oh, Lord, my stomach really dropped that time. The only way that would likely happen now is if she becomes the First Lady herself. And the way she _said_ it... 

Please God, don't let her see me shiver... 


	3. I, Lifesaver 3

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 3 ~ 

July 1999 

Oh, woo. If I thought I was graduating before, then this is the _real_ commencement. This is 1600 Pennsylvania _itself_. 

Every American schoolchild sees pictures of this place, inside and out. Some images are so familiar, you don't need to read the captions beneath. Right now it's like walking through a textbook, or a movie set. I can hardly believe I'm here, _really_ here. 

The very walls breathe history. And power. 

However, the formal tour will have to wait. Right now I'm seeing what even the regular employees never do: the Secret Service command post in the basement of the West Wing. 

Let me say up front that it rivals the Situation Room for importance. It can't possibly be less modern, even if its scope is far smaller. You have to secure the nation's leader before you can secure the nation itself. 

"Here is where we coordinate all White House security, as well as every one of our personnel details. We always have a full compliment on hand, including emergency backups in case agents suddenly become ill... or injured." 

My new boss, Ron Butterfield, leads the way. He's as tall as Hardcourt from the Treasury wing, which translates to at least four inches over me - but he's a lot slimmer. And absolutely business-oriented. You don't approach _this_ post halfheartedly. 

"The security procedures and precautions here are like nowhere else in the world." He says it calmly, a fact that will never change no matter how technology advances. This address is not allowed to fall behind the changing times. "All power sources are monitored. Air and water quality is constantly checked. We've got toxin detectors, Geiger counters, seismonitors... There are alarms and infrared sensors everywhere. You need to know where they're all located, and you need to know your way around, _cold_." 

"It's like the world's most luxurious prison," I mutter. The electronic wall map of all floors and grounds has better resolution and detail than the fanciest home theater TV I've ever seen... and the alarm points are painfully numerous. 

"You're right." Whoops; he wasn't supposed to hear that comment. "For the First Family _and_ for us as well. Crown is the glamour assignment of the Service - but it's a two-edged sword. It can make or break a career. It can ruin marriages and lives. I'll warn you now: you're going to have hours of boredom, broken by seconds of pure terror. From now on, whenever you hear something as simple as a backfire, you're going to jump." 

Okay, I'm getting the idea that "Clover Leaf" and even "Hallmark" detail didn't prepare me enough for this. All of these elaborate computer readouts and alarm panels are more than a bit intimidating. I wonder if I should start feeling scared about now... 

"Forget anything you've heard other people talk about. The vast majority of what we do is not public knowledge. Nine times out of ten, the local police or fire department or security firm gets the credit for any crisis we resolve. Accept it; it goes with the territory. Actually, it's better that we not draw attention to ourselves. We don't want to advertise our accomplishments. We _want_ people to underestimate us. It makes our job a lot less impossible." 

Boy, this guy doesn't mince words. He's made his point, too; it's just not possible to keep anyone completely safe. Presidents and their families have to be in public view. If an assassin is determined enough, sooner or later he or she will get through. We've had enough examples of that in our history already. 

Well, it ain't gonna happen around _me_. This I swear. 

"Crown is a standard three-year stint. It burns you out. There's no other job out there that demands such constant mental alertness, or the ability to act so instantaneously. Now and then you may be rotated to protect other, less prominent members of the First Family. It's a bit less stressful. There you're more worried about a kidnapping than an all-out assault." 

Oh, wouldn't _that_ put the President in an unenviable position. Perish the thought. 

Then I remember something else. "Of course, there's no accounting for the standard issue of unpredictable nutcases." 

Butterfield hesitates. That must be _his_ worst nightmare, too. 

"Exactly." And he doesn't have to say any more on that. 

"The President and First Lady are generally very cooperative with procedures. It's the other Family members who dislike most the level of security we have to provide. They're more apt to try and ditch us. We do our best to comply with their wishes for privacy, _without_ compromising their safety. We'll resort to outright lying if we have to, but we're never far away even if they _think_ we are." 

Oh, I can picture that: a covert blanket of agents that even the protectee can't see. 

"Now it's not unusual for agents to develop a genuine friendship with their protectees, if they're on that detail awhile. Nothing wrong with it, either. However, you've got to maintain a visible distance in public at the very least." 

I can feel my brow furrowing; that's pretty obvious stuff. I'm not exactly a rookie anymore, you know... 

"And it's not just because we have to stay so focused. We can't afford to risk having any questions raised about the merest hint of an... attraction. Of _any_ kind." 

Whoa. I see what he means now. I never thought. Boy, what a public relations morass _that_ could be. 

I think he can tell that I've got the concept. He seems to relax just a bit. Not much. 

"Something else: you've seen the televised White House press briefings before?" 

"Yes, sir; fairly often." Wonder where he's going with this? I scrabble for a cogent observation on my part. "Seems to me the President's got a pretty capable Press Secretary, considering what they put her through every day." 

"Well, that's just politics. The social events reporters who cover the East Wing can be even more aggressive." 

More aggressive than what I've seen on C-SPAN? And the First Lady deals with them _how_ often? I feel like I've stepped into some quicksand, almost... 

Butterfield checks his watch. "Regina is in now, so I'm going to introduce you while I can. She'll be on the hop for the next few weeks, and then Eagle takes off in turn, which means I won't be here either. Come on." 

Sure thing, no problem. It's just our equivalent of royalty. Boy, I'm _really_ stuck tight now. Butterflies... 

Stop staring, girl. Yes, the White House is breathtaking, but you're on duty. Time enough to explore later. 

Interesting: the East Wing actually seems more attractive, more - welcoming - than the West Wing does. I guess the game of politics is every bit as dirty as people make it out to be. I should be glad I won't be dabbling in that myself. 

Uh-huh... yeah, I'll be completely untouched by it. Right. Just like the First Lady herself is, I bet. _Not._

"Colleen, this is Lilli Mayes - the First Lady's Chief of Staff." 

Ah: "Mayfair." Hum, another long-haired midnight brunette. She doesn't quite have "Hallmark's" classical perfection, but she also lacks that hard, brittle edge. Warm handshake, too. First impression: she's a lot more sincere. 

Maybe there's less politics around this Wing after all. I for one wouldn't complain... 

"Welcome aboard, Colleen. The First Lady will be with us shortly. In the meantime, I can regale you with tales of what has happened to _previous_ members of her detail." 

Oh, yes, I like this woman. She has my kind of humor. 

"You make it sound like my days are numbered already." 

She has dimples, too. "Well, I'm not trying to scare you, and no one's been able to prove anything, but the First Lady _is_ a doctor, and there have been whispers of experiments..." 

My anxiety at meeting "Regina" is lessening with every second of this relaxed welcome. I've even got the perfect comeback - 

Someone is directly behind me. 

_ALERT._ I whip about fast. 

Everyone else startles badly - including the absolutely unmistakable woman standing just three feet off. 

Boy, do I feel stupid. Not even my first day on the job and I'm ready to attack my future protectee. 

"Mrs. Bartlet, Colleen Reilly." At least Butterfield recovered quickly. I'm still staring. 

I can see now why half the women in the country are envious. "Regina" is a petite knockout. Photos don't do her justice. That hair has to be the richest chocolate brown I've ever seen, and it looks both perfectly styled and utterly natural. She's simply attired, but that only enhances the overall affect. No wonder the female magazines wax lyrical about her flair for unpretentious fashion, as if looking smart requires no effort at all. And, even better, as if it really isn't that important to her. The whole "What's inside is what counts" attitude. This is a woman who knows who she is, as well as _what_ she is. No airs here. 

Good; _she_ seems to be recovering as well. I could argue that it was her fault for creeping up behind an armed and nervous agent, but that won't change the fact that for a second there I actually scared the President's wife. 

Fascinating: her once-over doesn't make me feel like I'm being flayed alive, the way "Hallmark" tended to do. But I'm sure she doesn't miss a thing. 

"Nice reflexes." 

I can't tell yet if she's kidding or critical. Should I apologize, or just pass it off? A flippant remark when it's not appropriate will only make matters worse. 

She tilts her head, staring up at me. "Now... the first thing you're going to do - is get rid of those heels." 

Lilli giggles. Butterfield doesn't make a sound, but I wonder if I missed _some_ kind of grin. Too bad; I'm kind of busy reining in my own amusement. Of course our diminutive First Lady would rather not have staff members and protectors towering over her any more than they have to. _She's_ the one people come to see. 

Even with my considerably greater height, I feel dwarfed. And yet, I'm feeling surprisingly comfortable as well. Humor is officially permitted. "It'd be my pleasure, ma'am. I can fight better in flats, anyway." 

"Oh, really?" "Regina" has finally dropped the deadpan illusion - and wow, does she have a charming smile. "You'd better choose your opponents carefully around here. Lilli is one mean customer... and I haven't had a good fight all week." 

Yep. I am _definitely_ going to like it here. 

* * *

August 1999 

Boy, how many people do you know who are _paid_ to wander the halls of the White House? Not even the First Couple qualifies there. To them, it's just a perk. 

To me, it outshines almost anything else. I see the rooms that the public can only read about. I see the inner workings behind the world-famous facade. I see the unsung teamwork by an army of workers that enables this huge and luxurious place to function. And I see petty disputes between some of those same workers... whether they're the cooks or the chief administrators. There seems to be a bit of serious competition between the President's staff and the First Lady's staff, especially; I'm not sure what about. Mostly the headlines, or something. 

Hey, politics is not my bag. Too confusing - and in its way it's even more dangerous than what _I_ do. 

The one thing that is _not_ outshone by White House prestige is this God-given opportunity for personal glimpses of the First Family. If the Service training wasn't so intense, I'm sure more people would sign up for that reason alone. 

If I weren't directly responsible for the physical safety of one of the Family members myself, I'd be having the time of my life. 

A perk for _me_ is that I'm virtually invisible. Even the staff members are so accustomed to agents lingering in the background that they all ignore us. That might seem rude, but I prefer it this way. I've stood near each of the First Daughters at least once without disturbing them. I've even gotten a few close-ups of the President himself; thank heavens _he_ doesn't notice me. I've witnessed some endearments and conversations that the newspapers would kill to know about and the public would positively lap up, but that I'd deny out of hand if asked. That's another part of my job: to be deaf and blind to the _personal_ lives of our protectees. Considering what a fishbowl they're in, and to a large extent because of _us_ , it's the least we can do. 

It's a real treat to have a ringside seat like this. All three Daughters are children to be proud of. Zoey is the one most commonly around, of course, and the most resigned to this kind of life. Visits from the other two add an extra dose of havoc to our regular schedules, but Annie is such a dear that she can charm anyone - even the Secret Service. It's a crying shame that she's so much at risk; the kid will probably never know a truly normal life. 

But I've seen the way "Eagle" dotes on her. If anything happened to his granddaughter... 

I've also seen a lot of evidence of just how close the First Couple are. No cracks in _this_ marriage. 

If anything happened to _her_... 

That's what _I'm_ here for: to safeguard the welfare of a woman, a wife, a mother, a _grand_ mother... and a keystone to the stability of the United States government. 

You know, I've just realized for the first time that, the whole while I was with "Hallmark," I always knew there was no realistic risk. I never let down my guard, but I also never _really_ believed she was a likely target. The wife of the _Vice_ President? No matter how much it might sting her pride, she should be grateful for the fact that she just doesn't have the same marketable value. 

That is so _not_ the case now! I'll bet there are a lot of trigger-happy fruitcakes out there who wouldn't hesitate to threaten the First Lady in order to pressure the President. Of course he'd never negotiate: the freedom of the entire world depends on that. But the very strain would tear him apart. May he _never_ be put in such a hideous position. 

Again, that's why I'm here: to make damned sure that nightmare doesn't happen. 

In a very real sense, I'm responsible for _both_ of them. Scary. 

Okay, stop thinking about it. Focus on the job, not the repercussions. 

Yes, there's the obligatory indoctrination period, learning the entire "Crown" floor plan. It's far more complex than it looks; the ultra-advanced security arrangements guarantee that. And hall monitor is a vital part of that security. But I'm delighted to finally be on "Regina" detail full-time. Considering those same security arrangements on all sides, I do feel just a bit superfluous sitting against a wall. Surely I'm more use to her if I'm right at hand. 

One might argue that playing a shadow inside this armed fortress should be just as unnecessary, but none of us are willing to take the chance that it might _not_. I've followed her discreetly on evening rambles through the Residence and all the State Rooms, when things are quiet and she's feeling restless. I've trailed her down to the kitchen for a late-night snack, when she'd rather not be catered to with a three-course meal. She doesn't often drop by the Oval Office, but when she does her passage from the East Wing to the _West_ Wing becomes a visible procession. That's when I walk beside her, and it's a heady sensation indeed... even though I know nobody's looking at _me_. 

But don't think that the First Lady gets around less than her husband. I can't imagine anyone who travels more than she does. She's the nation's best ambassador, bar none. Granted, her personal specialty is more social and charitable than political, but it's amazing what a huge political dividend our government can reap if "Regina" endorses some charity in one of the more loudly complaining anti-American countries out there. 

Never mistake: all of this international travel is work, not holiday. Especially for _us_. What we see all the time has nothing to do with tourism. Crowd-watching in _any_ city is the most nerve-racking duty of all; you live in constant apprehension that there might be a gun behind the next spectator along the fence. And no matter how alert you are, the mobs of faces blur together. I've come close to overreacting before at a sudden movement behind the rope lines or the sight of a simple package on the ground. There just isn't any way to prevent _all_ possible threats in a situation like that. 

But at least in the States we're on more familiar ground, and we know how the laws work. Abroad, we're totally dependent upon the local authorities for information and for assistance. Honestly, the ideas some countries have about security issues -! And a lot of them don't always want to cooperate with us, as though the most basic safety concepts don't apply to _their_ patch. But that's part of the privilege to living in a free society. For a fine twist of irony, the more totalitarian states tend to be safer than democratic ones, since they already have a tough stance on crowd control. And don't even get me started on the problems of language and cultural fundamentals. Comprehension and coordination are critical. 

Still, I'll handle it all for the pleasure of being around "Regina." I really like her. She's a total contrast from "Hallmark." Okay, that's not _the_ most flattering comparison, but in this context it's the only one I have. Now, does this make my job easier, or harder? Granted, there are times when I wish she'd notice me more - but she's not supposed to, and it's less of a distraction for me if she doesn't. Quite the paradox. 

One-thirty-nine AM. I sure hope she's asleep by now; from what I heard, that was a long day. Good thing the week's almost over. Surely the world's most popular (and powerful) couple can have a _bit_ of time off on the weekend. 

Oh, right; whether or not they can, _I_ can't. There's another training exercise Saturday. The fun never stops around here. The moment someone comes up with a new weapon or assault scenario, we try it ourselves. Though I have to admit, this constant practice sure keeps us razor-sharp - and I wouldn't want to be otherwise, even if it means giving up most of my weekends. Too much is riding on us being ready for _anything_. 

They also hold more briefings here. I don't know why I expected otherwise. Plus, there's a real grimness to the database searches in _this_ building. The "Clover Leaf" team has nothing on "Crown" at all. I only got a taste of this electronic battlefield before; I was running just the first level of a whole series of checks. New info is always coming in, and existing files are sifted time and again. Man, a person can grow just a _bit_ paranoid around here. 

The hard truth is, if even _one_ name slips past us... 

I think I've got a pretty good idea of Butterfield's state of mind. I've worked with him often enough by now, when "Eagle" and "Regina" are together. And I thought Hardcourt was humorless! But then, my current boss is personally answerable for the safety of the entire White House and everyone in it... not to mention the President himself. _How_ does he handle it? 

No, thanks, I'm quite content with - 

Oh my God, it's him. The Man. "Eagle." POTUS. 

His wife has said she doesn't like that abbreviation. And she likes the FLOTUS tag even less. I can see her point; somehow neither of them sound very dignified. 

He's coming this way. 

Well, of _course_ he is. I'm just ten yards down the hall from their bedroom. Is he supposed to sleep in his office? _The_ Office? 

Butterfield's right behind him. Odd; he rarely does House escort. Is something wrong? 

Nah; if it were, they'd radio us at once. Everything must be fine. 

Now don't freeze up. It's just the President. You've seen him before. He's probably seen _you_ before. And he's used to seeing all of us in the halls like this. He's used to ignoring us. He'll just walk on past... 

I've never been this close to him before. At least, not in _front_ of him. Always before I've been behind or on the side, invisible, and he's had other people to speak to, to distract him. 

Don't notice me, don't stop, don't say anything... 

"Good evening." 

He noticed. He stopped. 

_He spoke to me._

I bet my boss put him up to this, told him I'm new. So much for a total lack of humor. Now I know why he's on escort tonight. 

If he _weren't_ my boss, I'd - _I'd_ \- 

Come on, I've handled the _Vice_ President before with complete calm. Why should this be any different? 

"Mr. President." 

Oh, it's different. It's _very_ different. He's the man our entire existence revolves around. 

Sheesh, that's poor grammar - although I might have a sufficient excuse for not taking the time to proofread my sentences - 

"Sir, this is Agent Reilly." Okay, I'll forgive my boss after all. Good thing he spoke up, because I have no idea what to say next... 

"Indeed? Glad to meet you, Agent Reilly." 

I've seen that famous smile many times, but never before aimed at _me._

His eyes are so blue... 

His hand is extended. 

He wants to shake _my_ hand? 

_Move,_ girl! Don't keep him waiting! 

He feels human enough - wait, what am I thinking? That he's _not_ human? 

"It's an honor, sir." 

Lordy, I hope I don't look as pale as I'm sure I am... Maybe in this soft lighting... At least I'm not stammering with every sentence... 

What's wrong with me? I'm not afraid to leap in front of the bullet, but I'm totally scared to hold a conversation with the man I'd die to protect - 

"Oh, everyone says that. Let's have something original." 

I swear I'm going to get Butterfield for this. 

Answer the question. Well, strictly speaking it _wasn't_ a question. Your Commander-in-Chief just gave you an _order._

"Uh - it's a pleasure? A delight? Thrilling? Terrifying?" 

Don't be an idiot. Stop talking _now._

"That's better." What a _twinkle_ he's got! As though I just made his day. Maybe I can breathe after all. 

"Well. Good night. You too, Ron." 

"Sir." 

"Sir." Damn, I sound like a cheap echo. What a wonderful first impression. 

Would the President be as intimidating a presence if he weren't President? Probably not. 

Would he be as fascinating a personality? Probably yes. 


	4. I, Lifesaver 4

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 4 ~ 

September 1999 

Let the record show: no one does a party like the White House. Somehow, the Canadian ambassador hosting the British PM doesn't quite measure up. 

The State Dining Room is stunning even when it's _not_ decorated. This is one of the smaller events, not quite a state occasion, so it's not too crowded; there's enough room for fully half the guests to dance at the same time. 

I wish I could dance. But I'm on duty. 

A partner would help, too... 

Low heels have _already_ helped. 

Ah, well. I'm not here to have fun, any more than the servers are. It's almost enough to take in the décor, the music, the glitter, from a little distance. Think of all the people in the world who never get even this close. 

Hey - mind on business. Sure, every guest passed through a metal detector first, but there are plenty of other ways to kill someone. 

What a sad state of affairs when people can't enjoy a wonderful evening like this without such a cloud over their heads. Guess that's why they have me. 

I'm sure glad I ate earlier; many an agent has regretted not taking that precaution. At least the aroma of supper is finally starting to clear. Desserts don't perfume the air in quite the same way as a hot main course. We've got enough distractions to deal with, thanks. 

There's "Halogen," schmoozing as usual. Which means "Hallmark" can't be far off. If I get the chance, I should at least say hello to her. 

No, I mustn't be distracted. Besides, seeing me will remind her yet again of who she _isn't._

On the other hand, if she thinks I'm deliberately ignoring her, after being boosted from her detail to the First Lady's... 

How do you deal with such a fragile ego? 

I'll see if an opportunity doesn't present itself. Surely I can be pleasant? 

Here comes the First Couple to begin the dancing. Of course no one would dare start before they did. 

Eyes front! Everyone else is watching them. I should be watching everyone else. This is a made-to-order diversion. 

But... they're just _magnetic_. She's breathtaking in that amber gown, and he's more regal than ever in black tie. Plus, they're good dancers, very much old school - and you can _feel_ how close they are. You can literally see the attraction. Thirty-odd years of marriage and they obviously don't want to be anywhere else but in each other's arms. 

Okay, back to work. All this romance is making me sappy. Maybe someday I'll know that kind of relationship. If so, I can expound upon it then. 

Someday... 

_Meanwhile,_ I've got a job to do. Stick to the present. 

Good; other couples are joining in. The Bartlets are harder to pick out now. I can concentrate on watching their backs rather than their beauty. 

There go the Hoyneses. What a difference. He looks distracted, and she looks almost irritated. Might have something to do with her failure again to upstage the First Lady in the fashion department. She's at least as gorgeous physically, but she overdid it just a bit with both the big necklace and the fancy bracelet. "Regina" corners the market on subtlety. 

I could care less about these "dress derby" contests. I'm happy with basic black. Even if it _is_ bulletproof and has a built-in holster. And even if I don't have a date. 

Still, what _would_ it be like in a sizzling emerald full-length gown that matched my eyes, and to let my hair hang free for once, and to waltz with a handsome, kind, intelligent man - 

"Excuse me." 

Whoa. Wish granted! At least the last part is. It's "Lanark." 

There's no one else nearby. He has to be talking to me. 

He _can't_ know who I am. Not with that gleam of interest in his eye. 

Our earphones are getting more discreet every year. And there's no .38-sized bulge to give me away, either. 

"Yes?" 

He's got a champagne flute in one hand, but he doesn't appear to be to inebriated. What a relief. I personally believe that they should never serve alcohol at events like this. You'd think the last place anyone would want to lose control is in the presence of the Chief Executive. But there's just no accounting for human nature. 

"You're standing here all alone, so... I thought I'd say hi. I'm Josh Lyman." 

I know. I have to know every senior staffer from _both_ sides of the House. But I won't admit to that just yet. I can tell this will be the highlight of my evening. He's here solely because I'm a woman who's caught his attention. Grant me that at least. 

"Hello. Colleen Reilly." 

"Pleased to meet you." He has a cute grin, and for a politician - which he technically is - a gentle handshake. Or does he think me fragile? 

If I chuckle now, it'll ruin everything. 

"Likewise." I've seen him several times, but of course he hasn't noticed one more suit in these halls or following "Regina" around, even a _female_ suit. Plus, I usually wear lighter colors in these halls. And my hair, my most distinguishing feature, is always tied back. 

"Uh... may I get you a drink?" He's doing his best to be casual. I wonder when was the last time he tried to pick up a woman. Or maybe he was recently burned? I know our security files often have to contain that sort of information, too; still, I don't _look_ for it. 

"That's kind of you, but I just had one, thanks." I won't admit either that it was water. I should go easy on his ego while I can. 

"Okay." He puts his glass down, as though he thinks it's impolite for him to drink in front of me. I like this boyish charm he's got. "You having a pleasant time?" 

Trust me, Josh, you don't want the honest truth to that question. "Well, Mr. Lyman, this _is_ the White House." 

What a self-deprecating laugh. I'm starting to feel pretty guilty. " _Josh._ And you do have a point. Most of us will never get another chance like this." He modestly doesn't mention that he works here. A lot of guys would want to milk that impressive fact for all it's worth. 

Then there's the trifling fact that _I_ work here, too. 

He attempts a gallant bow, and almost gets it right. "If you'd like, I'd offer you a dance..." 

Oh, temptation. He wants to spend time with _me_. 

I think I understand now how "Regina" feels when people show interest in her as Abbey Bartlet, rather than as the First Lady. What a warming sensation. 

"I really shouldn't." What I _really_ shouldn't do is toy with him like this. 

Aw, he's like a whipped puppy when his face falls. "Oh. If you're with someone else, I apologize." 

Okay, this is getting cruel. "Just let me check first." I raise my left wrist and pretend to radio out, all the while watching Josh covertly under lowered lashes. "Reilly to Butterfield. Permission to have a dance with Lanark." 

My soul, what I would pay for a photo of his face! Such a combination of horror and embarrassment I have never seen. The poor guy. 

"I... don't believe this." Oops; he's going to bolt. He must be thinking about the sidearm he knows I have somewhere, not to mention the hand-to-hand combat training - as though I'll take him out for daring to approach me. Now I feel terrible. 

"It's all right, Josh. I was just kidding about the call. But you understand now why I shouldn't dance." 

Even if he believes that I _was_ kidding about that transmission, he knows I'm not kidding about my career. No one else has access to Secret Service code names. 

If he goes any whiter he'll fade into the wall behind him. In fact, that wall is about the only thing still holding him up. 

"Look, I-I'm sorry - uh, Agent... uh -" Is he _ever_ sorry. You'd think such a simple error was worth a court martial, or worse. I didn't expect quite this degree of panic. 

It's really too bad. He _is_ cute, and I haven't had someone notice _me_ in quite a while... 

"Colleen." The least I can do is reciprocate. "And don't worry; I'm hardly going to report you for being thoughtful." I hope my best smile helps calm him down; my words don't seem to be doing much. "Honest, it was very considerate of you to ask." 

Okay, maybe he won't hyperventilate after all. Or fall over, or run. But I hope none of his friends hear about this; they'd never let him live it down.

* * *

October 1999

This is interesting. I mean, _really_ interesting. I declare, "Regina" can take any topic and capture your attention. 

I almost wish she weren't so good at it. I'm supposed to have _my_ attention on the crowd, not on what she's saying. 

The conference room is full. I'd bet only "Eagle" draws more of an audience. Everyone seems pretty rapt, too. No sign of nervousness or tension, the kind that suggests somebody is planning to make a move. 

I was on the advance team checking out this place. I've been all over its floor plan. I helped oversee the guest screening. I know we're secure. 

But in this job, you learn to trust your instincts. 

I don't _think_ I feel anything. You _can't_ let your imagination run away with you. 

Of course, "Regina" can't go anywhere unnoticed. All of Cincinnati knows she's here tonight, in this building, in this very room. 

Calm down. Focus. One minute at a time. 

Look at Ricco. He's the picture of control. And I can see Todd at the back. Between them they've got the room in a crossfire. With that amount of firepower, I'm almost window dressing. 

Hey - scrap the complacency, _now_. That's the fastest way to get someone killed. 

"Bourque to Reilly. A problem?" 

So Todd noticed my fidgeting after all. I sure hope no one _else_ has. 

"No," I mutter to my jacket lapel. "I'm just a bit on edge." 

"Suspicions?" 

"Only in my imagination." I sweep the room again. No one should be watching the First Lady's bodyguards, but by now the more observant guests must have figured out my role here. There's no other conceivable reason for anyone to ignore the star speaker, even a woman in an ordinary business suit. Wouldn't it look great to the public if Secret Service agents appeared to be a bundle of nerves, all set to go off half-cocked at anyone. Yes, we can act swiftly and decisively - but until the need arises we stay cool and _ready_ to act. 

Besides, if we seem to be expecting trouble, then people will be all the more prone to panic. Don't need _that_ , thank you! 

Anyway, this should be over soon. "Regina" will have won the hearts of environmentalists everywhere, and the Service will have warded off Armageddon yet again. But I've still got half a shift of hall duty to go when we get back. Then I've _got_ to hit the hotel pool; I'll never sleep otherwise. That should put me in my room around - 

**//BOO-OOM //**

_ALERT. Explosion!_ Not right in this room, but close enough to rock the floor. 

I leap forward without making any conscious decision to move. I've got to catch "Regina" before _she_ can move, in _any_ direction. She's only just starting to turn when I seize her by the blazer, whatever handful I can find, and yank her back from the mike. _"Come on!"_

Screams on all sides. Are we under attack? 

Secure the protectee. Get her the hell out of here. 

I know where all the doors are. I head at once for the closest, only a few yards away. Gun ready. Nobody's in our way. "Regina" doesn't resist or say a thing. 

More screams and motion, but we're already out. I'm not waiting for anyone; not even Ricco. Too many people know where "Regina" is. 

Get her to safety. A location that no one knows to hit. Then call for a pick-up. 

Watch for diversionary tactics. 

One moment's pause; yes, the corridor ahead of us is clear. 

But the left wall has windows. Dark out there, light in here - 

"Stay low!" I shift my hold to the back of "Regina's" collar so that we both have room to move fast, but I can still control where she goes. She doesn't make a sound as I hurry her forward in an awkward crouch. We've got to stay below the windows. If anyone on this side of the building is watching for motion to track - 

I keep myself just a bit behind her, and just a bit taller. The _known_ source of danger is to the rear. If anyone gets hit, it's gonna be me. I'm the one who's supposed to be bulletproof. 

These fancy torso linings don't do much for limbs... or heads... 

Shut up. The protectee comes first. So long as I live long enough to see her safely into the care of others - 

Keep physical contact with her at all times. If anything happens, even if it's only a stumble, I need to know. And I may need to stop her, or make her move _much_ faster. 

I don't like this. We're taking the best avenue of escape - and the most obvious. What's behind that door at the hall's end? Are we being driven into an even worse situation? 

Deal with it when it comes. By now backup will be on the way. Secure the - 

**// BOO-OO-OOM //**

_Another_ blast! No closer, but still way _too_ close! At once I drag "Regina" sideways and push her into a huddle against the outside wall, near a window - but not right under it. At least no _outside_ gunman can shoot at us now without breaking the glass first. I shield her as much as I humanly can, gun panning the hall, my free hand on her head keeping her down. 

Better keep _my_ head down, too. I won't do her much good if I get it blown off. But I've got to see everything around us. At this moment I'm the only defense she's got. 

_What_ is being thrown at us? The exterior wall is strong, though not as strong as a corner where two walls meet and support each other - but we may have to go through the window itself to get outside in one piece if this whole place starts to go. I can protect "Regina" against whatever unfriendlies might be out there, but I can't protect her from a falling ceiling. This is one time I'll play the odds. 

We shouldn't leave until I know it's clear, but we need to get near an exit and _ready_ to leave the second we can... or _have_ to. 

That tremor is over. How long before the _next_ impact? Were those bombs, or is someone shelling this center with heavy artillery? Does someone want the First Lady dead _that_ badly? 

Or are threat forces closing in to take her alive _right now?_

They won't get her without one blue devil of a fight, I promise that. 

But it'd be far better for her sake if we can _run_ , and _hide_. 

Now it's quiet. Ominously so. I can't see or hear or _feel_ any motion. Where is everyone else? There were a hundred people in that room we just left... plus all the center's staff... plus my own colleagues... 

Should I risk moving her again? We're not far enough away from the danger by a long shot. But if the next assault catches us in the open - 

No sound over the radio. Is there a signal problem? 

Is anyone on my team still alive to contact? 

Keep it soft, just in case someone _else_ is listening. "Reilly here." 

My God, am I alone? Does "Regina's" life now depend exclusively upon one woman with a single firearm? Against _how_ many others? If they've taken out the other four agents inside - 

_"Reilly, this is Bourque."_

Oh, thank the Almighty... At least Todd's pulled through. So far. 

First things first. "Regina's okay. What -" 

_"All clear. It was a gas leak in the basement. Repeat: all clear."_

A gas leak. Not an assault. 

Footsteps in the hall. Take no chances - 

And Ricco runs right into my sights. I gasp with the effort not to shoot him by sheer reflex and nerves. 

He must trust me a lot, since he only slows a bit but keeps on coming. "Colleen?" 

"Regina's all right." Did I really hear Todd correctly? "A gas leak?" Not a bomb? A barrage? A diversion? 

"Yeah. Something shorted out in the basement kitchen and touched off the first explosion, which then led to the second. Neither were that violent, and they've already got things under control. It was definitely an accident." 

An accident. We're safe, and the situation is secure. I guess none of us will die today after all. I can dare to relax a bit. 

Which reminds me... to look down. 

I'm looking at the First Lady of the United States. I've crammed her into a wall, using my whole body to pin her there, still holding her head down and close to me in a very intimate embrace indeed. 

She's my mother's age... but I'm the one playing the protective, maternal role. 

I draw back. It's safe. She can rise now. After I went to such lengths to squeeze her into the smallest target possible, the least I can do is help her up again. 

A minor gas leak in the basement of a large complex. She was never in any _real_ danger. Not the kind of danger I envisioned. Not the kind that requires the steps I took. 

She slowly straightens and lifts her head. I can't read her expression, but I bet she can read mine. The floor can just open up and swallow me any time now. 

How much time has passed since the first blast? I have no idea. Probably several minutes, since they've had time to assess the situation. Feels like only a few seconds, though... 

With more grace than I could hope to muster on my best day, "Regina" gains her feet. I'd hauled her forcibly about in full public view, dragged her by the collar like a bratty child, steered her left and right like a lawnmower, ordered her around _very_ freely... and all she does is tug her rumpled suit into place and smooth her hair. As if this were a typical day's event. 

No one can say that she doesn't know how to conduct herself in a crisis. She put her public image and her personal dignity on hold, gave her full cooperation, did exactly what she was told, asked no questions, and let the pros take charge. Nor did she show the slightest hesitation - or fear. 

She trusted us. Trusted _me._

"Thank you, Colleen." 

Should I be comforted by that gratitude? Or is the _real_ blast yet to come, in private? Sure, in a security breach we give the orders, but I could have been a _bit_ gentler about it... 

"Ricco, are there any injuries?" I don't think I've ever seen her so calm before. 

"A few in the kitchen, ma'am, but nothing too serious, and they're already being seen to. There really isn't much damage. We can get you away from here now." 

It occurs to me that I still have my gun in hand. I guess I won't be needing it after all. What a relief. 

"What about those in the conference room?" 

"Just some bumps in the panic, ma'am. We were able to reassure them pretty fast." 

My suit is more than a bit out of shape as well, and my hair must be a fright. Oh, for the gift of invisibility... 

"I should speak to them before I leave." 

"Ma'am -" 

"What? You said yourself there's no danger. At least let me reassure them that I'm fine, and make my departure under a more pleasant note. Five minutes." 

Ricco sighs. I second that, brother. The Bartlets are notorious for lack of concern about their own welfare. They always put the people first - which is fine for public relations, but it's hell for security protocol. 

By the time we return to the conference room, I'm fully in control again. Looks like most of the guests are, too. This could have been quite the disaster. Instead, it'll be a passing mention in the society pages. Believe me, I don't mind. 

By the time we're in the limo, I'm fully braced for the first sign of impending reprimand. Granted, "Regina" is known for her generous nature - but she's also got a will of iron, and she aims for excellence every bit as much as we do. 

"Are you all right, ma'am?" 

Only after I ask does it occur to me that none of my colleagues had raised the same question yet. Are they so willing to take my word for it after that furious action? 

"Just fine." She's already reading the material from this evening's discussion. Not at all as though she came close to getting killed less than half an hour ago - by her own bodyguard. 

I try to ignore Maureen, her accompanying secretary. Todd is up front, his back to mine. At least Ricco, who witnessed my methods himself, is riding in a separate car. 

"Mrs. Bartlet, I'd like to apologize." 

Okay, now I have her full attention. 

I really don't want it. But... 

"Why?" She actually looks confused. 

"For my roughness earlier." I never thought it'd be so hard to swallow. "I shouldn't have manhandled you like that." 

Uh-oh - I've seen that calculating expression before. 

"Did you know at the time what caused the explosions?" 

"Uh... no, ma'am." 

"I imagine you assumed that we were under some kind of attack, right?" 

"... Right..." 

Is that the start of a smile? "Then you acted precisely the way you were supposed to. No need to apologize for doing your job. I trusted that you knew what steps to take." 

Her use of the past tense rings in my ears, drowning out everything else. 

"I still do." 

She _does?_

"For what it's worth, ma'am," Todd adds from up front, "the rest of us never doubted that Colleen would keep you safe." 

Wow. Praise from my protectee and my peers together. 

What's that strange sensation...? 

Oh, right. Relaxation. Relief. 


	5. I, Lifesaver 5

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 5 ~ 

November 1999 

Being President must be like a four-year term of house arrest. There are just so many preparations, so many precautions to run before _any_ trip that he simply doesn't go outside when he doesn't have to. Maybe that's the real reason why "Regina" likes to travel as much as she does. Makes sense to me. 

Still, I'm glad I'm not on _this_ trip with her. Three in a row within the same month is plenty. We've got more than enough agents to spell each other off, let those who feel Housebound move around a bit, while those who feel jet-lagged can stay put. What a relief to be allowed to voice a preference. 

Considering how dangerous our work is, the average citizen might be surprised at how the Department does try to take our personal feelings and mental comfort into account. We're not just faceless automatons, programmed to kill, void of emotion or scruples. Like any other employees, we do our job better if we're happy in our environment. 

Considering what rides on our job, they'd _better_ cater to us now and then. 

So, let's enjoy this evening of hall duty while it lasts. I imagine they'll want me to advance "Regina's" next trip before long. I have no doubt that there _will_ be a next trip very - 

A screech in my ear: "Crown intruder!" 

_ALERT._ I tense at once, spinning around, weapon ready. 

This stretch of Residence corridor is still clear. 

_Where,_ then? 

Surely no one could get over the fence, across the lawn and inside the building undetected, so the intruder must still be outside. 

No, don't jump to conclusions - 

_"Echo-12. Single alarm."_

Yep; exterior. We all have to know these coordinates by heart. This situation won't affect me. That's near the northwestern corner of the South Lawn. Not far from the West Wing. 

Oh, hell - and where do the principle workaholics hang out? 

_"Delta-3, copy."_ Good; the Uniformed Division is on it. They may not have quite the in-depth training of the protection details themselves, but they know their job. 

Where's "Eagle" right now? If he's out for a stroll - I positively burn to know, but I shouldn't tie up the airwaves asking, and I can't leave my post anyway. 

Don't call in. You can't do anything from here. Wait it out. 

Move it, guys! Hurry _up!_

_"Delta-3 to Crown. Single intruder is in custody. One weapon confiscated. No casualties."_

_"Big ten. All exterior units, report in."_

I don't relax until the last outside man confirms we're secure again. That's when I realize that my muscles actually hurt from the tension. And it lasted - what? Less than a minute and a half. We know our job and we do it fast, but in the interim time just crawls. 

Well, it's over now. Whoever was stupid enough to accept a dare, or suicidal enough to attempt an assault, is safely in hand. I swear I can feel the pressure drop all around me. We must have over three hundred Service personnel on duty around here at all times, uniformed and plainclothes both; don't tell me that sheer volume of relief can't be detected. 

_"Butterfield to Reilly."_

What on earth...? "Reilly here." 

_"Report to Charlie Papa. I want you in on the Q &A."_

Me? That's a first. "Uh - yes, sir." 

_"Your relief is on the way."_

"Big ten. Out." 

Now why would the boss want _me?_ He's quite capable of intimidating people unassisted. I'm still rather new to "Crown" by comparison... 

Guess I'll be finding out soon enough. 

Here's my relief already. I'm not waiting to ask questions; I'll find out soon enough. 

"Charlie Papa" - gotta love the phonetic alphabet. All of the major rooms in "Crown" are identified that way. Each location must be distinct and unmistakable; we can't have any uncertainty over the radio due to similar sounding names. Also, our frequency is _supposed_ to be completely untappable, but just in case... 

Boy, the command post positively buzzes in alert mode. Even though the alarm is apparently over, it'll be awhile before things calm completely. "Eagle" must feel even more charged than this when he's called to the Sit Room. Heady stuff. 

He can't be more in command there than Butterfield is here, right now. 

"Sir?" 

My boss starts pointing at once. "The alarm was tripped here." Now I _really_ appreciate this ultra-modern display of "Crown" layout. It can zoom in on a specific blade of grass in the dead of night. "The intruder entered here." Meaning he didn't get two yards past the fence before we all knew he was here. "Delta-3 team intercepted her here." Within another dozen strides, way back from the actual building walls. That was fast work. 

Wait a minute... "Her?" 

"Yes, the intruder is a woman." 

Okay, I'm starting to get the whole picture, and I'm not sure I like it. "So that's the _real_ reason why you want me involved." 

"You're the only female agent here right now." Butterfield sure doesn't make any excuses. "You're also fairly fresh from Treasury, and accustomed to infiltration. This was not some minor stunt; she had a gun. No semi-intelligent person would hop the fence and hope to get far - no sane person would do it armed. She's obviously unbalanced. We figure she'd more likely open up to a woman than to a man. You're the logical choice." 

Put that way, I don't have any right to protest. Whatever works. This is kind of important... 

"Fair point. Where is she now?" 

He indicates a monitor, showing a small, featureless room. I know that room: it's a secure office in a back corner, and the closest thing to a cell that "Crown" has to offer - or needs. A uniform is standing guard inside the closed door. The intruder is pacing frenetically, as though searching for escape. Something's definitely odd about her behavior; anyone with an ounce of sense would just cave in and wait for the almighty Secret Service to dictate what happens next. Huh... she looks easily middle-aged. 

I'm getting ideas here. Our greatest fear by far is a person who doesn't act rationally - and therefore can't be predicted. The standard direct approach may not work all that effectively with a nutcase. How about a disarming, casual chat instead, and with a younger woman at that? If I can win her confidence enough to get her talking, she might spill everything. 

Such a simple act wouldn't fool a genuine assassin. But someone beyond reason... 

"All right. Tell the guard to pretend that I'm in the same boat as our nocturnal visitor there, and to treat me the same way." 

Butterfield twigs to my plan at once. "Done." In fact, he goes for it so readily that I wonder if that's what he had in mind the whole time. Wouldn't surprise me. 

I shrug out of my blazer, the most obvious sign of respectability. That reveals my firearm, though, so I pull my blouse loose until it hangs free and sloppy. Then I unfasten my hair clip and give my head a good rumpling. _That_ should make me look wild. 

It'll also guarantee that my earpiece is invisible. The room is bugged, of course, but I'll be able to hear any suggestions Butterfield may have as the conversation develops. 

I've done this sort of thing lots of times before. It's amazing how quickly people will open up to a woman who asks like she hasn't a brain in her head - and not just men, either. And when you're under cover, you're playing with your life. You have to get good at acting, fast. 

Come to think of it, infiltration has quite a bit in common with Hollywood. 

"Okay. Let's see if I can charm it out of her as to what she has against the President." My blood heats up at the very thought. 

My boss looks just as incensed... but he's not assuming anything. "If her target _is_ the President." 

"Oh, who else -" And I stop. We're talking about a psych case here. 

"Right, forget I said anything. So, place me under arrest and lead the way." 

* * *

December 1999 

Another shift, another briefing. From the handouts, though, this one might be longer than usual. Joy... 

Every time, I can't help but feel like a kid in school again. The pride of the Secret Service, which is the envy of the world in itself, and we're taking notes from lecture desks in a veritable classroom. If the material we cover wasn't so deadly serious - 

"We've got a new man on site." Butterfield points to the most recent addition to our ranks. "This is Bill Slaughter." 

No one chuckles, despite the jokes we could make about that surname. But in a way the sheer silence is just as funny. 

"Hey, I didn't choose it." Oh, good; the new guy has a sense of humor as well. I guess he'd need it. 

Of course our boss doesn't give any sign that he's aware of the slightest comedy. I wonder if he even knows how to laugh... "However, we've already got Wesley Slater here. So, to distinguish on audio, Bill will be going by his middle name: Murphy." 

Good thing his middle name is the most common Irish name, and not the _second_ most common - _mine_. 

"Now, there have been some amendments to code names in the West Wing. As of today, Eagle is now Liberty. There is no change to the rest of the First Family, the Hoyneses, the governmental brass or their respective staffs. The Presidential staff changes are as follows..." 

Great; nothing like a whole new series of terms to memorize. Ah, well; I should be grateful that we're only talking about half a dozen this time. 

"CJ Cregg: Flamingo." 

Woo. CJ will be flattered to learn that she's been associated with one of the most exotic birds there are. Tall and graceful, just like her. 

"Sam Seaborn: Princeton." 

Straightforward, for a not-so-straightforward guy. Sam's got the pretty-boy looks, and great brains to match, but he has to be the biggest source of trouble on the payroll. 

"Toby Ziegler: Groucho." 

No laughing, girl! There's no reason for him to dislike being classified with such a celebrity. Quite aside from his general morose attitude, Toby's got that talent for deadpan wisecracking down cold. If you didn't know him, you'd never guess at his genius for eloquent speech-writing. I think it's his version of armor. 

"Josh Lyman: Harvard." 

Yet another graduate. He and Sam are like bookends, in more ways than one: brains, looks _and_ trouble. The poor guy hasn't forgotten about that dinner in the fall, though; he still goes crimson every time he sees me. But what's a girl to do? 

They've obviously chucked the previous standard of starting the code name with the same letter as the surname. That gives us much more room for variety - but also more work for memorization. (Although, now that I think of it, the First Family never adhered to that approach from day one. But then, they're just a _bit_ special.) 

"Charlie Young: Batman." 

Oh, yes! That was _my_ suggestion. Never mind the hero connotation: it's a very appropriate army reference for the aide to the Commander-in-Chief. Besides, his eyes are so bright against that dark skin. If he were ten years older, or if I were ten years younger, I'd be majorly tempted to give "Bookbag" some serious competition. 

"Leo McGarry: Dexter." 

I love how they come up with these names. What could be more appropriate for the President's right-hand man? Although I kind of wish they'd gone for my idea of "Mufasa." But then, I can just imagine his reaction to _that_. He doesn't strike me as the Disney type. 

Butterfield's shifting topics on us again. "All right. Next Monday is the trip to Philadelphia, and I can now confirm that both Liberty and Regina are going. The advance team will be Francoeur, Hunter, Stead... and Reilly. You leave tomorrow." 

Oh, boy. I like advance work... and yet I don't like it. We can't afford to miss a _thing_ ; we've got to nail down every possible angle of approach and every conceivable location of attack. The challenge is to use your imagination and suspicion. Don't trust anything you see until you've checked it out. 

Think like an assassin. 

* * *

January 2000 

People often ask me how I can endure just standing around for hours on end without going stir-crazy. Of course I can't reveal trade secrets, so it's best to pass it off as an acquired skill. 

Truth be known, quite aside from the vigilance angle, it often gets quite interesting to stand out of the way and watch the people go by. Most staffers and even most visitors don't notice me at all. I can risk a fairly close look without appearing to do so. It's a challenge to try to guess what this visitor has in mind, or what crisis that employee has to deal with now. 

Actually, it's a good exercise. We have to be observant of everything around us. In a situation we might need to make big decisions based on what we saw people do just before, and we sure have to be able to ID suspects. Besides, I've read a lot of Sherlock Holmes over the years. One more standard to aspire to, I say. 

There goes "Mayfair." She's carrying fewer documents now than the last time she came through, and she looks peeved at something. I wonder if the West Wing and the East Wing are locking horns again - or if "Liberty" upstaged "Regina" in the news again. Honestly, the Man can capture more headlines with a thirty-second aside than his wife will over an entire afternoon of hard work. What an aggravation, no doubt for both of them. 

I don't know the name of this Congresswoman, but I've seen her around a fair bit of late. I bet she's pushing either the children's shelter bill or protection for battered women. Both issues have been in the papers lately, and both tend to crop up afresh after her visits here. I must remember to check tomorrow and see which one gains the upper hand this time. Or who knows - maybe she's into both. God knows the First Lady is into a lot more than just these two. 

The strangers are the ones I really try to study. However, they're also the ones who are more likely to notice me, since they're less familiar with this place, and I don't want to make them feel even more uncomfortable. I should have a word of thanks with Maureen. She didn't wait for me to ask her to walk between the visitors and me - she figured it out herself. A fine bit of screening. Now this fellow carries himself like an athlete. It's hard to pick out muscles under a double-breasted suit, but there's something about the smoothness of his stride. I wonder... 

Here is where my memory stands its great test. I have to recognize most of the employees in "Crown," so that I don't assume the worst when someone drops in on "Regina" unannounced. Of course no one who doesn't have clearance gets into the White House in the first place, but we're not relying solely on that. Uniforms can be stolen. So can ID cards, and makeup can change a face to match. But even the calmest villain seems to radiate just the faintest aura of malice. So I watch, and I get a feel for the mental state of the person passing by... and I stand ready, just in case I'm needed - for _anything_. 

Uh-oh. I'm not sure I'm ready for _this_. What's Butterfield doing here? He almost never has business in this Wing... 

"Reilly." 

"Sir?" Eek, I don't like that extra-hard glint in his eye... 

But it can't be that urgent, or else he would've called instead. 

He beckons me aside into a bit of a niche, where we can both watch the hall but are even less likely to be seen by others. 

"Something's about to break, and you need to know it." 

I don't like the sound of that. Secrecy is part and parcel of the Service - but scandal seems to be the order of the day for the politicians we protect. 

"Six years ago, Leo McGarry was admitted to a rehabilitation center for alcohol and drug abuse." 

So this is what it feels like when the blood rushes from your face. I can hardly believe it. "Dexter" is the real power in the White House. He's a master at the art of politics. He's a man everyone admires... and almost fears. He's always totally in control. 

He was an addict? This is a total image-breaker. 

"Someone got hold of his medical records, and they're trying to make political hay out of it. The papers will pick it up within a couple more days at most." 

Political hay that will be. The President's closest advisor... including in military matters... 

My stunned mind tries to grasp the repercussions. "How long - have you known?" 

My boss sighs. He's been in charge of "Crown" for this whole administration; he knows its highest people personally. "The Department brass, from the first. We also know that he's been clean _and_ sober these six years. There was no need to inform the rank and file - until now. We'll brief on it tomorrow." 

Something still doesn't click. "But why tell me now..." 

Oh, no. I know what he wants me to do. 

He just nods, almost sadly. I think that might be the first honest emotion I've ever seen him display. "The Bartlets and the McGarrys go way back. They know his history." 

"And you don't want them to hear _this_ over the news." 

"Right. Liberty was only just informed." 

Now _I_ sigh. "And you want me to tell Regina." I feel ill. "Why not let her husband do it? This is kind of personal." 

Butterfield draws himself up, the consummate professional, unfazed by sentiment. "It's a security issue now. Besides, you're heading off to that dinner within the hour. I don't see Liberty finding the time before then. And the whispers are already circulating." 

"Damn." This sort of thing is not in my job description. But it'd be so much more considerate for "Regina" to hear it from one of us, now, rather than through the grapevine later. 

Interestingly, this is one time my boss is not calmly delivering an order. He can't want to confront the First Lady any more than I do, but he will if I refuse. It's his ultimate responsibility, not mine. 

Which only makes me feel worse. And more inclined to volunteer as well. 

"Fine." We women have to support each other, after all... 

"I'll wait here." He's offering to mind my post while I handle this delightful errand. 

As always, the First Lady's office ("Foxtrot") is a whirlwind of activity when she's about to leave for anywhere. No matter how meticulous the preparations ahead of time, there's always something to cover at the last minute. 

"What is it, Colleen?" "Regina" noticed my appearance at once. Normally I wait to be summoned. 

"May I speak with you for a moment, ma'am?" 

Yep; she knows something's wrong. She leads me into the next room over and shuts the door without being asked. 

Boy, her eyes are piercing when her suspicions are aroused. 

"Mrs. Bartlet, I'm sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this." I'd better not pause; it isn't life and death, after all. "Leo McGarry's medical records from six years ago are about to be made public." 

Silence. 

If anyone ever wants a definition of "misery," look here now. 

"Aw, hell." She must be upset; usually she's very careful about word choices like that. But then, the First Couple has been married for over thirty years, and everyone knows that "Dexter" has known both Bartlets that whole time... "Bad enough that he's had to endure rehab, the White House workload, and the breakdown of his marriage. Now they want to drag it all through the press -!" 

There's really nothing I can say. Good thing; I haven't a clue what to say anyway. 

She turns towards the wall. "Well, we were afraid that this might happen one day. It's the risk you run when you run for office." 

I suppose. Yet another reason to avoid politics, if you ask me. 

"Regina" rotates back, blinking a couple of times. "As soon as we return here tonight, I'm going to go over and speak to him." 

"Yes, ma'am." Which means that I'll be playing escort. Not that I mind journeying to the West Wing now and then, and I certainly don't mind catching glimpses of "Liberty" himself... but this will not be a happy pilgrimage. 

Whoa - the sparks are starting to fly. "And just how did some backstabber get his or her hands on what is supposed to be a confidential medical document?" 

"I... don't have that information, ma'am." 

"Then we're going to _get_ that information." I've never seen quite this degree of outrage in the proper First Lady before. But, of course, she's a doctor. She'd be particularly sensitive to breaches of medical ethics. "And then we're going to do something about it." I can feel the energy build from five feet off. "It might not be wise for me to get involved myself; that'll only add to the publicity. But just see if I can't help track down the perpetrators and make sure they're brought up on charges!" 

I agree. The man made a mistake. He's redeemed himself - with no small pain, I'm sure. He shouldn't be made to suffer publicly as well. 

Whoever's caused this fiasco had better duck and cover _fast_. I rather wish I could be there to watch Dr. Abbey Bartlet in action. 


	6. I, Lifesaver 6

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 6 ~ 

January 2000 

I _adore_ this plane. If I were First Lady - or, God forbid, President - I'd want to take her up every single chance I got. 

The amount of technology, and _security,_ that's gone into "Angel" is simply mind-blowing. From the moment they started the blueprints, she's been under constant guard. Every item brought on board is checked and re-checked to make sure it's safe. She's got defense mechanisms built in that no aircraft has ever known before. There's no safer place to be, save for "Crown" itself. 

Of course, a moving target is harder to hit than a building. But then again, a building can take more physical punishment. And a plane is never so vulnerable as when on the ground - even here in "Acrobat," which has to be the most heavily guarded air base in the country. 

Okay, knock it off. "Regina" will be here before much longer, and we'll be airborne in this flying fortress right after that. Even if it's not officially "Air Force One" unless "Liberty" is aboard in person, it's still the most luxurious and most prestigious plane in the world. 

There's been an official executive aircraft for every president since FDR, and when new technology comes along they always upgrade. This 747 is quite a few years old by now. What's next: our very own Concorde? Boy, can you imagine jetting around the globe faster than the speed of sound? 

_"Chariot to Angel. Regina ETA Acrobat in thirty-six."_

"Big ten." Right on time. "Liberty's" tardiness is a commonly accepted fact, but his wife is a model of promptness. Of course, she has a far smaller entourage, and she's less likely to deviate without warning and work the rope lines or some such. But then, the executive pilots are past experts at both killing time and making up time in the sky. No matter when we may leave, we'll arrive on schedule. And arriving on schedule is a must. 

Speaking of departure, I have time for a final check. There's always the chance that we've forgotten something, however unlikely. Still, this bird is so well stocked and so wired for communications that we could leave everything behind except the passengers themselves and we'd still manage to accommodate all needs. Not that I want to put that to the - 

"Liberty's down!" 

Omigod. The President. 

The First Lady. My protectee. 

I scramble for my cell phone. I can't tie up the channel, _especially_ now - 

What has _HAPPENED -_

_"He's in Oscar. Unconscious, but alive. Call Sawhorse."_

He's alive. Oh, thank God on high, he's _alive._

But what the hell happened? What _could_ happen in the Oval Office itself? 

_"Sawhorse is on his way. Report, Oscar."_

Yes, report _now_. Report to _me_. Because "Regina" is already en route, and I'm the one who's going to have to tell her that her husband - that the President - 

_"He's coming around. Looks like a simple fainting spell."_

Oh, wow. I feel like _I'm_ gonna faint. The relief... 

I've got to call "Chariot." But should I check with "Crown" first? 

I'm in charge of "Regina" detail today. It's my job to tell her. And she'll kill me if she finds out I delayed for _any_ reason. Faint or no faint, we're talking her husband here. 

_"Crown to Angel."_

Oh, whew - what timing. "Angel here. Do I tell Regina now?" 

"Stand by." 

Oh, thanks; like that's a lot of information. 

I can feel my pulse pounding. The channel is dead silent; everyone's leaving it clear, waiting for news. "Liberty" detail takes precedence, hands down. 

_"Sawhorse is on the scene. Liberty is up and conscious. Initial diagnosis pending."_

Come on, come on... I mean, make an _accurate_ diagnosis, but every additional minute is bringing "Regina" closer to here. Not that she's needed back _there_ if "Liberty" just had a drop in blood pressure from standing up too fast; there's a fully competent doctor with him right now. 

But - she's his wife. She'll want to know ASAP. 

_"Liberty prognosis is the flu. Repeat, flu. Situation under control."_

Happiest words I've heard in my whole career; I'm sure of it. I bet others will agree, too. 

"Angel to Crown. I'll call Regina now and reassure -" 

_"Belay that, Angel. Stand by."_

All right, _now_ what? 

"Crown to Angel. Liberty is off to Sierra. Hold Regina transmission until further notice." 

Holy... the Man just passed out cold in his office, and now he has to go to the Sit Room? When it rains, it _pours._

But if he's well enough to deal with a national or _inter_ national crisis, he can't be that sick. 

Not that the flu's a picnic. And he is human, after all. 

On the other hand, he'll be getting the best care a person can have. 

Why delay telling "Regina?" We may not have all the gory details, but we know for sure that he's okay. Or did he stipulate that himself? Does he not want to worry her? 

Not many men like to be fussed over... Presidents included, I'm sure. They've got this thing about dignity and self-sufficiency. 

"Angel to Chariot. Status." Of course the motorcade agents are listening in as well, but the guys in the limo itself won't let anything slip unless I tell them to. I'm supposed to be in charge. 

"On schedule, Regina ETA Acrobat in eighteen." 

If they get here before I have any more info, "Regina" will whale the hide off of me and any other agent within reach. Well, almost. She's always been protective of her husband. Comes from being a doctor, I suppose. _And_ a wife. Never mind the First Lady. 

He's fine. Just a touch of the flu. Nothing to worry about. 

Time... is _not_ on my side... no, it's not... 

Okay, I know things are bad when I start warping song lyrics to suit my circumstances. 

"Crown to Angel. Liberty is on his way to Romeo. Sawhorse is still in attendance. Inform Regina." 

Finally. And good; pack him off to the Residence, and keep the doctor around a bit longer. We don't take chances with him. "Big ten. Out." 

Now for the phone, so I can speak with her directly. She can't be ten minutes away. 

"Yes?" 

Ah, "Mayfair" picked up the limo line. She'll do great as an intermediary; at least I won't have "Regina" raging at me. 

"Agent Reilly, Mrs. Mayes. I just heard from the White House. It seems the President has taken ill." 

A very concerned pause. "Ill?" 

"Don't worry; he's all right. He passed out briefly in the Oval Office. The White House medical officer says it's the flu. Nothing more. They've prudently sent him to bed." 

A sigh, no doubt of both relief and dread. I know how she feels. "Right. Hold on." 

It would also be prudent for the East Wing Chief of Staff to cover the phone receiver in order to confer with her boss in private. That doesn't prevent me from trying to hear while I wait, though. Chalk it up to human nature. 

"Mayfair" is back. "How long ago, please?" 

If that's the only question "Regina" has, then she's taking this very well indeed. 

I check my watch. "About twenty-five minutes." The longest twenty-five minutes I've ever known. 

"WHAT?" Okay, that wasn't "Mayfair." So much for taking it well... 

I can't hear any more, but I can just imagine. She's furious at him for waiting almost half an hour to admit that he's sick. Playing the Iron Man. She's his doctor, after all, as well as his wife; he should know better. 

"Colleen, we're going back to the White House." 

No matter what other professionals are already on hand, "Regina" has to be there herself. I should have been able to predict that. 

"All right... Please call me with a new departure time." 

"Of course." "Mayfair" clicks off. 

Well, so much for the First Lady's vaunted punctuality. But I daresay no one will criticize a wife who wants to make sure her husband's well before she jets across four states. 

Now someone's calling me. How did we exist before cellular phones? "Agent Reilly." 

"Colleen, it's Lilli again. The First Lady has decided to cancel her trip." 

I feel my mouth drop open. "I'm sorry?" 

"Mrs. Bartlet will remain at the White House. The President needs careful medical treatment if he's to recover in time for the State of the Union. She'll see to it personally." 

Now that is a bit more inconvenient than a later departure time. All of the arrangements to undo, both here and at the other end... and the people to disappoint... 

But that isn't mine to say. Any more than I should comment on what seems like overreacting on "Regina's" part, just for a little flu bug. 

"Very well; we'll stand down here and return." 

"Thank you." 

Man - one little hiccup in the President's health can have a lot of repercussions. 

* * *

February 2000 

It's never easy being a woman in a man's world - in politics _or_ security. 

Although, if you ask me, politicians have got it easy by comparison. Any woman can be as intelligent, ambitious and ruthless as any man, and the world is far more willing today to accept that a brain is a brain, regardless of age, race _or_ gender. But proving she has the same physical strength and stamina... that's more of a challenge. We're just not built the same way. 

Still, with the proper training and a good dose of extra skills, like martial arts and pressure points, we can certainly hold our own. Besides, being underestimated by your opponent gives you a huge tactical advantage - at least at the outset. 

The problem is, it's better if bodyguards are _over_ estimated, in the hope that a potential attacker will think twice about trying something, and then decide against it. A lot of would-be killers or kidnappers will almost certainly rank a female agent as less of a threat to their success. That leaves us with an enormous responsibility to be even more prepared for trouble. 

The Service _is_ hiring women... those that pass our very high standards, of course. Hell, not many _men_ accomplish that. Which, I suppose, made this day inevitable: when I would meet a new female agent who's quite a bit younger than I am. 

"Bookbag" lives in residence now, but she almost always drops into "Foxtrot" whenever her mother is about to take another trip. And she's got her new shadow. Gina was introduced to all of us at her first briefing the other day, but of course she doesn't know me by name. 

Neither does Zoey, for that matter, but she usually has a smile for me just the same. 

Boy, she's growing into a fine young woman. 

So... while the Bartlet ladies visit before their next parting, Gina and I wait outside on either side of the office door. The pillars of Hercules. Or rather, Hippolyta. 

She looks as calm as anything, but I can feel the underlying discomfort. I'm older, I've been an agent longer, I've been in "Crown" longer, I have to be more experienced, and I'm on "Regina" detail itself. She won't start the conversation. 

"Colleen Reilly." 

She's not so new or nervous that she can't smile. Still, the smile makes her look even younger. "Gina Toscano." 

She's got a strong handshake, I'll give her that. 

"Welcome aboard." 

"Thanks." 

We really shouldn't be chatting here on the job - but did she sound just a bit curt? Maybe it's the newbie syndrome, desperate to prove herself? Or... was she picking up on something in _my_ tone? 

I'm not falling into the gender trap myself, I hope! She's been through the same training I've had; she wouldn't be here if she didn't do very well even for the Service. The daughter of the President is seriously high-risk... especially with the recent rash of hate mail. 

Poor kid. It's just awful that some close-minded idiots object to her choice of a boyfriend. And what must it be like, having people follow you everywhere, even around campus? At least Gina will blend in there; her youth is essential for it. But it's a major drawback as well - that casual look won't scare anyone. No, far better for her to hover in the background like any other student, and come out fighting when she's the least expected. 

She seems so young to be in this dangerous line of work. Then again, the same thing was said about me, once. Still, she must be twenty-five. I could give her seven years at least. I feel old. 

Okay, now I'm being silly - and paranoid. The truth is, this job is physically taxing. We need young people, pure and simple. Someday I won't be able to hack it. Fact the facts. 

Anyway, I'm not at risk of being downsized anytime soon. 

"Been with us long?" Why am I continuing this? Well, surely a few quiet, friendly comments can't hurt; neither of us are taking our eyes off the hall, or relaxing our guard. 

"Fourteen months." Does she sound defensive? She's probably expecting me to announce that I've been here for years longer, just to keep her in her place. 

Well, I _have_ been in the Service for years longer - but my tour of _protection_ duty is almost exactly fourteen months. A clear case could be made for equality. Besides, the last time I checked we weren't competing for the same position. 

Will we be, one day in the future? 

Hey, wake up and smell the java. If anyone can do my job better than I can, I'll step down voluntarily. This is not about filing reports; it's protection of a major public figure's _life_. It requires the very best. Period. 

"Good for you. I find I prefer this to the Treasury wing... but if you want a taste of _real_ action someday..." 

Careful; I don't want to sound superior, or like I want her out of here. 

"Perhaps I will." Uh-oh; I think she read me wrong. Obviously I'm not the only one thinking along these lines. 

Damage control time. I also don't want her walking away convinced that the head of "Regina" detail is out to smack her down. "I'm not trying to defend my turf. I'm just saying I'm grateful that I _haven't_ seen much action around here." I risk a direct look. 

She turns as well. Certainly no agent would wish for action around his or her protectee. Maybe I got my point across after all. 

Whoops - here comes "Bookbag." Lousy timing. Suddenly Gina's all business, falling into step behind. I can tell that to her right now I have ceased to exist. She's one dedicated girl. 

Damn. _Woman._

I'd really rather not let this end on such a questionable note. I take a couple of quick steps after them - close enough for a low message to be heard by one but not the other. 

"Take good care of her." 

And I don't mean that in anything but the truest sense. Sure, Zoey Bartlet is a major linchpin in the stability of the First Family - but she's also the pride of the entire White House and everyone who works here. We are all watching her grow up together. 

Gina doesn't comment... but she does throw me a telling glance. I can tell she means the very same straight back: that I have no less reason to take care of _my_ protectee. 

We're not competitors. We're _partners_. 

* * *

March 2000 

They say competition breeds excellence. Maybe in sports it does... but I'm less sure about politics. For my money, it's not so much who can do the best job, but rather who can spin the best story, who can cut the most lucrative deal, or who can deal the most ruthlessly with one's opponents. 

Don't get me wrong: this administration is a lot more morally upright than quite a few others in our history, and its staffers are incredibly good at what they do. God knows, they do their best to do their best - it's just that this system of democratic government has evolved into such a morass of deal-brokering and compromising that I'm amazed anything worthwhile gets done at all. 

This sort of "game" is not for everyone. I know I'd never be able to stand it. Give me an undercover assignment with the leading counterfeiter in the nation, where one wrong move or word will invite people to kill me outright. I'd have better chances of surviving that than the bear pit of federal politics. 

Come to think of it, the difference between how criminals fight to control wealth and how politicians fight to control power is not so great. And the jury is still out on which one produces the higher body count. 

The saddest thing about all this is how people who are fully dedicated to working towards a common goal, and a wonderful goal at that, all too often find themselves working against each other because they can't agree on semantics. 

"Mrs. Bartlet, you're going to _love_ this." 

Case in point... 

"Regina" rolls her eyes. We've only just arrived in the East Wing and can't even reach her office before "Mayfair" intercepts us. Whatever "this" is, it'll probably be a first-class annoyance - and five will get you ten that it involves the _West_ Wing. Not many other sources of conflict can generate that level of indignation in the First Lady's Chief of Staff. 

"What's happened, Lilli?" In she goes, resigned to hearing the latest beef. I'll just assume my post outside here and be glad _I_ don't have to deal with it. 

Oh, boy, "Mayfair" is seriously upset if she doesn't even remember to close the door. Which means that I can hear everything. 

Don't be distracted. Technically, this has nothing to do with me. 

Yeah, right... 

"Sam Seaborn came by a little while ago." 

Did I not just call that? I'm so good. 

You know, at times "Princeton" can be the nicest guy around. He's a whiz at his job, and he usually knows diplomacy as well. But when he's convinced he's right... 

Well, that description would probably apply to almost any other member of the President's staff as well. Politics seems to either bring out the hardest elements of a person's nature, or else build a hardness that wasn't there before. 

"First he drops a not-so-flattering line about the Children's Crusade, just because his office didn't come up with it before we did." 

First? If "Mayfair" has got "Princeton's" faults itemized, then this is no minor flare-up between competitors for public attention. 

"Then he has the gall to accuse me of leaking over the wire that you favor Ron Erlich for Fed Chair." 

See, this is why I want to stay out of the whole political arena. What's wrong with _that_ bit of news? They want this item leaked, but they don't want _that_ item leaked... it's enough to make your head spin. 

"Then he says and I quote: 'We've got to find a way for _your_ staff to work better with _our_ staff.'" 

Okay, I realized from my first day here that "Mayfair" resents to no small degree how her boss gets back-benched by "Liberty" far too often. In fact, she probably resents it more than "Regina" herself. Bad enough when it happens accidentally, or when official events just can't be changed - but a deliberate slight like that one... 

Oh, I forgot again: "Liberty" is now back to "Eagle." Two months of agents stumbling over the new code, after using the old one for over a year, and especially the awkward compound "Liberty detail", proved to all doubters that it is definitely a mistake to fix what ain't broke. Since his detail gets more air traffic than all the rest of us put together, we really should stick to the shorter, more distinctive-sounding, more familiar name. 

I sure hope The Man himself is not aware of all this scrambling around and behind him. 

"What are we going to _do_ with him, ma'am?" 

What - oh, right. They mean Sam, not... I really should try to ignore them. 

It would help if they shut that door. Even though they both know I'd never repeat anything I hear, I still don't like being in this position. 

A long sigh. "And here we go again. Every time there's the slightest disagreement between East and West..." I can just picture "Regina's" look of irritation. "All right, let's hear the whole story from the top. And then we'll see if we haven't been handed a bit of ammo, right after we've given some away." 

Uh-oh. If "Regina" takes up this dispute, things will get _very_ interesting. After all, she has direct access to the highest court of appeal in the land. And her implication that both sides now have ammo in their arsenal... First Family fireworks? I hope I miss _that_. 

So the hours pass, and the First Lady's staff tries to sort out the world's social problems, and I do my imitation of a statue, look forbidding, and people-watch. I wonder which of us gets more accomplished. 

Okay, enough cynicism. We should be leaving in five. You can almost set your watch by "Regina's" movements - when no last-second upheaval intervenes, that is. 

Here she comes; the sound of those heels is unmistakable. Right on time. 

"Lilli, I'm off again." 

"Yes, ma'am. Everything's ready to - excuse me. Lilli Mayes." 

How do people know to phone right in the middle of a sentence like that? It's an art. 

Of course "Regina" will wait a moment, just to make sure this call won't affect her. I'm still outside, but I can script the whole scene without seeing a thing. 

"Oh, he _is?_ " Whoops; alarm bells. "Well, thanks for letting me know." I try not to wince; the phone isn't designed to be hung up quite so forcefully. "It would appear that our boy Sam feels the need to visit us _again_ today." 

That guy's into punishment. 

"Relax, Lilli. I'll handle this myself." Yeep; if her tone is anything to go by, "Regina" will be wearing a rather dangerous smile right now. No matter how genteel and dignified she looks on camera, there's a gene in there someplace that loves the taste of battle. "You make yourself scarce." 

And "Mayfair" cuts a trail out of town, looking both relieved to hand off this confrontation and sorry that she won't get to witness it. It just occurs to me that I might be wise to make myself somewhat less visible as well. If "Princeton" sees me - and he has to pass within four feet of this spot - then he'll know who're _really_ waiting for him inside. 

This ongoing House friction shouldn't affect _me_ at all. The last thing the Service does is take sides. Besides, I can hardly just leave my post, much less for such a petty reason. And I'm under no obligation to contribute to my protectee's plans for ambush. We're apolitical, remember? This infighting is beneath us. We handle the _real_ battles. 

However, it can't hurt if I dodge behind that potted palm for the few seconds "Princeton" will take to pass by. I'm also under no onus to warn him ahead of time as to what's in store. I'm just helping my protectee create the atmosphere she wants. 

Here he comes, totally unsuspecting. Now this discussion I'd love to overhear. 

Of course, now I'm out of earshot. Figures... 


	7. I, Lifesaver 7

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 7 ~ 

May 2000 

Like everything else about this job, night shifts have their pros and cons. After weeks of frenzied day work on all sides, especially when there's a lot of travel, the evening drop in activity levels can be a huge relief. Of course the White House never truly sleeps, and national crises don't wait for the sun, but normally the nights are far quieter. On the other hand, it always takes me most of a week to get my body used to the idea of sleeping through daylight, so I'm often a bit tired the first few shifts. At least switching back goes faster. 

The best part, though, is the week off we always get once our night rotation is done. So I've had a glorious sleep in, a luxuriously long shower, and nothing but a relaxing evening ahead. It's after ten; Brian will be here before long, and we'll make the late movie with time to spare. Work and politics will be off-limits to our discussion. 

Of course, even when a United States Secret Service agent is off-duty, he or she is never out of touch or unprepared. The cell phone and the pistol go where I go. It's a wonder I don't scare Brian at times. We met only a few months ago, but there's no way I can hide my career from him. 

He hasn't asked me yet just _how many_ weapons I carry. I hope he never does; between the .38 in the ankle holster, the .357 in the belt holster, and all the _other_ kinds of firearms I have to practice with regularly... man, he'd run screaming for sure. 

A lot of guys wouldn't stand for a woman who's tougher than they are. Not that Bri is a pushover himself. But at least he knows he _and_ his date are safer than most in this dangerous world. 

If only this world weren't so dangerous in the first place. If only we didn't even _need_ guns. Sigh... 

I should catch the weather. _Not_ the news; "Eagle's" Town Hall triumph will be all over the papers tomorrow. It can keep until then. This night is mine. _Ours._

_Where_ is that remote? I should tie it to the TV; then I _know_ I won't lose it. Kind of negates the purpose behind a remote control, I suppose... ah, here we go. I've got to stop using it for a magazine bookmark. 

Oh, no - there's my phone. If it's anyone _but_ Brian... or if it's Brian calling to cancel... 

Then he _will_ have reason to fear me. 

Blast it, the news just won't go away. Well, I _don't_ want to hear it. Surely the world can get by without one more agent for a single evening? This call will be a welcome distraction until I can get this stubborn remote to change the... 

"Agent Reilly." 

Wait a minute - what is going on... the news... 

"Shots fired..." 

That looks like - 

"Newseum..." 

\- the motorcade - 

"President..." 

Oh, my soul and body. 

The unthinkable has finally happened. 

_Was he hit? Is he alive?_

My God, "Regina" - 

Oh... my phone... who's been talking all this time? 

"Reilly, can you hear me? There's been -" 

"On my way." And I punch off. That could only be someone in the command post, but I don't care if the next sentence would've been a direct order to stay put. I'm going to "Crown." If "Eagle's" all right, that's where they'll take him. 

"Regina" will need me. She'll need _somebody_. Her husband... 

The leader of the free world... 

Holy - "Bookbag" was going to be there too! 

Keys. Phone. Radio. ID. Gun. Door. 

How the hell could this have _happened?_ After all our precautions, all our efforts to make sure this could _never_ happen - 

Stairs. Car. Accelerator. Ramp. 

_Is he alive?_ Can't _one_ agent confirm _that_ online at least, even just in passing? 

This is what I get for coming into the story in the middle. _Damn!_ If only I'd been on duty tonight after all! 

Red light. Okay, I think I've got myself in hand. Weapon is tucked away and earphone is in place. Here's a gap between cars. I'm not waiting for the green. If there's a cop in town who's got time to pull me over, I'll deal with it then. 

Good Lord, the traffic on the _channel!_ I'm tempted to yank that mike right out again. But it's the best source of information, bar none. Endure it, and hope it doesn't deafen me. 

Now if only everyone would yell a bit softer, and a bit slower, I'll be able to tell what exactly is going on. A lot of it I just can't make out. 

Slow down, guys! Stop overlapping! 

How long ago did this happen? What have I missed? 

Almost there. Ten more minutes and I'll get everything from the horse's - 

There's the phone again. Please, no banality now. Let it be "Crown," with _good_ news; that's all I ask. "Reilly." 

"Delpero here. Get over to GW now." 

_SHI -_ I drop the phone and squeal into a one-eighty. Everyone out of my way! 

If Ricco is at George Washington, or en route there, then "Regina" is too. But she wasn't part of the Rosslyn thing tonight. Which means that either "Bookbag" was hurt... or "Eagle" himself. 

_No..._

The one bright spot I can see right now is that _I_ didn't have to give her the news bulletin this time. Pretty cold comfort, that. 

_Is he alive?_ Isn't anyone else hanging on that question besides me? 

Wait - there we go. It's official: "Stagecoach" One and Two are both at the hospital. 

Of course the President would tear over if the slightest thing happened to his daughter. Just try and stop him. 

And then he'd tear the perpetrators apart. 

But if it's _him..._ Then leave that task to _us!_

Okay, I'm filtering out the basic facts: two gunmen in a window, shots at random, multiple casualties, one suspect still at large, airport and terminal closures, cops all over the area... It's chaos. A war zone - right here in DC. 

And somehow, it's _our fault._

Did I hear that right? "Eagle" is heading into surgery - 

_He's alive..._ He was hit, but he's still alive - and he's under the best care there is. And "Bookbag" is unhurt. Pardon me while I offer up a prayer of thanks at seventy MPH. 

Watch it! I can't afford an accident en route. At least it's late; not much traffic. That's one blessing in this madness. 

Hold on... oh, please tell me I didn't hear _that_ right - "Harvard" too? 

Dear God. 

If I ever get my hands on the shooters -! 

I'm here! Finally! And I've got the full story, or all of it that we've got so far. It's also an enormous relief to know that I'm on the front line for updates. Information is like armor at a time like this. 

Although I'll probably have a killer headache later on from all this yelling in my ear. 

Hey, it's a small price to pay for a surviving Chief Executive. 

_If_ he pulls through. And Josh had damned will better live as well. __

The whole hospital wing has been locked down, of course. Another advantage to my career is that I'm admitted just about anywhere, anytime. 

Man, I'd bet there are more agents here than at "Crown" itself right now. But of course we have a huge medical complex, an assassination suspect on the loose, a wounded President, an anxious First Lady, a traumatized First Daughter... and a critical White House Deputy Chief of Staff. If those aren't enough reasons to load up on security... 

Lock _yourself_ down, girl. Stay focused. This is an attack on our supreme leader and the entire national identity. But we've got to get through it. Do your job. 

I buttonhole the first agent I can find who's post-standing inside, away from the worst of the action. Can't think of his name right now... Robin something. _Not_ Hood. 

"Where's Regina?" 

He doesn't have to ask _my_ name; aside from the fact that I know the code for the First Lady, I'd never have gotten past the first line of defense right outside without definite clearance. "They're in a secure room down the hall." 

What must the hospital staff think, to say nothing of the patients, at this veritable invasion of black suits and grim faces? Sure, they get emergencies all the time - but not of this magnitude. It's going to affect their entire routine. I sure hope no one has a heart attack from the sheer stress... or that the lock-down doesn't interfere with their _other_ important business. 

Just let "Eagle" pull through. Everything will be bearable after that. 

There's Ricco - and I see Emmett is on duty tonight as well. I'm in the right place. 

They've got the door to that room. They don't need my help, especially with the army of our colleagues on every side. 

But odds are "Regina" will. Women need women. 

Emmett just nods; no more. "What kept you?" 

"Staying below the sound barrier." I can feel the tension hammering at me from all sides. Sardonic humor is one kind of defense. "How is she?" 

Both men shrug. How do you expect a wife and a mother to be, after her husband and her daughter were just shot at? Through the half-open Venetian blinds I can see the entire West Wing senior staff - less "Harvard," of course. They're just standing or sitting like so many zombies. I can only guess what they feel, coming from a massacre like that. Service operatives are trained to handle it. These people _aren't_. 

There she is: with "Bookbag" off to the side. And "Batman," too. God, what a thing to put a couple of kids through. What is the _matter_ with this world? 

I know "Regina:" she'll be strong in front of everyone else. I have a few minutes at least. 

"And Eagle?" 

"They figure the operation takes a couple of hours. It doesn't _sound_ life-threatening." 

He's not critical. He'll be fine. If we all believe it, it'll happen. 

"Were any of ours hit?" 

Some of them _had_ to be. No way could the President have been shot at without every available bodyguard around getting between him and the danger at once. 

What I should have asked was how many of ours had _died_. 

Ricco's sober look warns me even before his nod. "Butterfield." 

"Oh, _no_..." 

Well, of _course_ he'd be hit - he's "Eagle's" top man! He'd have jumped in front so fast - 

"Just in the hand. He still got Eagle in the car. They're patching him up now." 

Oh, restart my heart. He'd die before he let his protectee sustain even superficial damage - but our boss did his job, and thanks to him it looks like our leader will survive. 

The _nation_ will survive. 

My two pals seem to share the same thoughts. In fact, I bet every other agent here does as well. Seriously, for all their stiffness and obvious vigilance, I'm getting definite vibes of genuine concern. We're not here solely because we're paid to protect these people. We're also here because we _care_ about them. 

Whoops - "Regina's" coming out. I'll get the rest of the gory details later. 

She doesn't even look at us. "I'm going to the ORs." 

I'm not surprised that she doesn't notice me. Inside one of those operating rooms is her husband. Inside the other is a friend. 

I wave both men back; I'll handle this. Not that she's ever beyond hailing distance of a dozen agents around here tonight... but just a friendly presence will bring comfort. So long as I don't intrude, that is. I trail a careful distance behind as she slowly heads down the hall. 

Oh, wow - you can't appreciate how badly hurt a person really is until you see it for yourself. Radio transmissions, news reports, security training, undercover experience, even the expressions of stricken friends... none of them prepared me for this. Of course, I've never watched an operation before, much less a critical one. But I understand now why the rest of the staff are waiting in the room, rather than here. "Harvard" looks _awful_. 

Like he's dying. Like all the help modern medicine can possibly provide will avail nothing. 

Poor Josh... just because he happened to be standing near the President. No other reason. 

I hope to heaven and earth he lives. 

See, this is the other side to our job. We don't just protect our important leaders, whose injury throws our country into pandemonium. We also protect the innocent bystanders who so often get hurt when our leaders become targets. 

The human race is utterly and terminally insane. 

I can guess why "Regina" came to this OR first. She knows her husband's staff pretty well. But now she can spend the rest of her time in the second room without qualms to her conscience. She's proven to herself that the experts are all over _this_ victim. 

Now, for the other... 

Oh, _WOW_ \- and I thought watching the first procedure was hard. 

He looks so human. So _vulnerable_. So strangely un-presidential, for once... of course, I've never seen him in anything but a suit before, not even civvies... 

Uh-oh... I think "Regina" had an ulterior motive for coming here last. Her reflection in the glass is vivid. Never have I seen a person look so _helpless_. 

Okay, she's his wife; she loves him to pieces. She's also a doctor; she's probably done this sort of thing before to her own patients. And here she is with no possible way to help him, no choice at all but to leave him in other people's hands. All she can do is stand by and watch while they dig around in his body and fight to keep him alive. 

He'll live. He _has_ to. He's not anywhere near as badly hurt as "Harvard." Just two short hours, half of which is already gone. Besides, one of our guys is in the OR itself, for mercy's sake. 

But what if something goes wrong with the surgery? Even the simplest procedures can have complications! 

Please God, no... 

Unless I miss my guess, she's thinking the very same thing. I know her well enough now; I can read the distress right under this careful surface. She's as calm as anything around everyone else, especially her daughter. She also has to consider Josh, and what _his_ friends are going through on top of everything else. And she automatically gets professional around other doctors. For _all_ of them, she has to be totally in control. They need her to lead them now. 

She's leaning on that window as though she could reach right through it and touch him, as though seeing him - knowing he's still alive - is the only thing that matters right now in the whole world. 

What do I do? Offer support? She sure could use it, but that's way beyond my purview. 

Go away and give her the privacy she deserves? But then these fears will just multiply... 

I shouldn't be here. This is way too personal a moment for her. She ought to be unobserved now of _all_ times. 

I'm sure she doesn't even realize I'm here. So long as I don't make a sound... 

I care for her. I care for _him_. I want to help. I _need_ to help, some way, somehow. 

Keep it soft. I don't want to scare her _again_. "Ma'am?" 

"Oh - Colleen!" I was right: to her, for that segment of time, nothing else had existed. 

Is she irritated that I've dragged her back to reality... or is she relieved? Is being with a mere employee better than being silently tortured by her fears? What's ultimately harder: having to wear a painful mask for the sake of others, or facing yourself without any masks at all? 

"I'm sorry. I'm intruding." Boy, do I _ever_ feel like I'm intruding, even if it's for her welfare. "But I have to know - and not for security reasons. Are you all right?" 

I am _not_ here right now because it's my job to be here. 

She can tell. She knows I'm going way beyond my established duty - because I care. 

Does that make her feel better... or worse? 

"It's good of you to ask." Okay, I actually might dare to believe that I haven't increased her discomfort. She really does sound grateful. She isn't pretending that she doesn't need support just like everyone else. 

Then, "The President is going to be fine." 

There's not the slightest doubt in her tone. Despite all the anguish of watching him go through that medical procedure, and knowing how dearly he _needs_ that procedure, and how close he came to being beyond anything it could do for him, she's still confident in the outcome. She trusts the opinion of the professionals, the same way anyone else around here would do. And she defines her well-being by defining _his_. How touching. 

"Yes, ma'am. And so will we." Now that was not a Special Agent talking. But I wouldn't retract it anyway. 

"Uh, I'll be more than happy to keep you up to date on events, if you wish. Or," I add as a sudden afterthought, "if you'd prefer, I'll stay away." She may not _want_ to hear the news. In her place, I doubt _I_ would. 

She's looking out the window again, at her unconscious husband a few short yards away. Does what she sees actually give her extra strength? Or maybe it's just that idea of information being armor - an armor I can provide and share with her. 

"Yes, I want to know." A deliberate pause. She's still looking at "Eagle" in repose. " _He'll_ want to know." 

I will not cry. No matter how beautiful and powerful the First Couple's relationship is, I will not cry. Not while I'm on duty, at least. 

Will I ever experience this kind of tenderness myself? 

Aw, damn it all - I completely forgot about Brian. He must've heard the news by now, and he knows my job, but the least I can do is call him. 

In just another few minutes. I can't leave her yet. The world's most public figures still need their friends. 

Oops; "Regina" is looking at me now. Looking at me very closely. 

"Thank you." 

* * *

May 2000 

Twenty-four hours after an assassination attempt... 

The history books will stop long before this point. The drama is over. The casualties are alive and recovering. The perpetrators are either in jail or dead. Anyone reading about this ten or fifty years from now won't waste their time wondering what happened next. 

Not so for those who have to deal with it, here and now. __

The briefing room has never been this crowded, I'm sure. Every agent who was on duty at the time or in any way involved with events before or after is present. I'm standing; the guy who's been up for thirty-six hours straight needs a seat more than I do. 

Except for the bandage, you'd never know that Butterfield had been anywhere near the action. He's as calm and cool and direct as always. Talk about dedication. 

His hand must hurt something awful, but that bandage is like a medal of honor. He fulfilled a bodyguard's supreme duty. The fact that his protectee - the _President_ \- was injured more severely than he himself is moot. He got "Eagle" into the car at once, and then he got him to the hospital. With all those bullets flying, it was simply the luck of the draw. 

"As of now, the situation is under control. Eagle is recovering just fine and should be coming home tomorrow." 

What a relief. Not only that we'll be able to protect him better here, and allow the hospital to regain some semblance of normalcy - but also that he's doing so well. It could have so easily been so different... 

"Harvard's surgery finally ended just after noon, and with no further complications he'll eventually be all right as well." 

In a way, that's an even bigger relief. Sure, a lot more rides on the President - but physically he wasn't in half as much danger of dying on us. Let's be human for a moment and acknowledge the salvation of a life. _Any_ life. 

He was so sweet, the night he asked me to dance... 

I remember his assistant, wandering the hospital corridors like a lost soul. She really cares for him. I sure hope he returns the compliment. 

"The surviving suspect, Carl Leroy, has already been interrogated. He insists that he and his two pals were acting alone. Just the same, we're going after their whole West Virginia movement. And we still have to find out how they got into that building in the first place." 

Yeah, that's been bothering me. Did they bribe someone, or did they infiltrate? Is a fourth accomplice still out there? Damned straight we go after their cell; we don't let _anyone_ brag that they took part in an attack on the President and walked away from it. Seriously, I want to smack these bigots into the next century. I just can't understand how anyone could believe that a person with a different skin color is subhuman and shouldn't be allowed to live. 

"Airports and terminals have reopened, and are recovering from their closures. The highways are clear again as well. The overall impact on travel should be slight. The markets also are rebounding. The public consternation is still being evaluated, but that's less our problem." 

Okay, maybe so, but what about - 

"And before anyone else asks, I've spoken with the Department Head. There will be no fallout from Treasury. No one is blaming us for this incident. They're not blaming the agents on duty, nor the Service as a whole." Whoa; Butterfield's getting a _really_ stern look now. "We all know that it's not possible to predict the actions of a few idiots who want to die in a blaze of glory. We did our job. We secured the area to the best of our abilities. We got Eagle and Bookbag in their cars. We took down the gunmen in nine point two seconds. We apprehended the third man within six hours. We did our job, and we did it well." 

Maybe so, but I think I could tell you how everyone in this room feels right now - including our boss, despite his strong stance. It still seems like a failure. We should've nailed those lunatics before they got inside, much less pulled off a shot. 

How will the public feel about us? How will the Family and the White House staff feel? We work around them every single day. We're supposed to protect them from nightmares like this. 

How will the _President_ feel? 

"Gina." 

The young female figure in the fourth row looks up. 

"You did fine." Wow; I've never heard our boss speak that gently before. 

I can't see her face from here, but judging by the set to her shoulders she's not convinced. She knows that all of us know that she saw the third man in the crowd and didn't make the connection until it was too late. She's going to blame herself for the rest of her life. 

I should talk to her later, one on one. Woman to woman. She won't want sympathy, but maybe I can just be a friend. 

"Another thing that you need to be aware of: Groucho scripted the memo over a year ago that discontinued the tent. He asked me earlier today to release it to the press - so that he could take the flak rather than us." 

Oh, man... the guilt trips are flying today. What a guy, wanting to make sure we don't get burned for _his_ decision. 

"I don't need to tell you that we're not complying, and we're not commenting either. But I want you all warned, in case he tries a different tactic - or in case someone else gets wind of it. If so, let me know." 

I know what's going through "Groucho's" mind. This is an eternal problem for politicians. They _have_ to be seen by the public. And if they're seen, they're at risk. It's just not possible to protect them from all conceivable harm. 

I feel even sorrier for him than I do for Gina. He's seeing this whole debacle as his fault at the very core. He made a political call that helped endear his leader in the eyes of the public. He certainly didn't endear himself to _us_ , but he advised "Eagle" that the risk was worth taking. After all, most Presidents have gotten through their entire terms without one security breach. And who would want to harm a wonderful man like Jed Bartlet, anyway? 

No one... except a few wackos who don't like the looks of the guy his daughter is dating. 

I'll never understand the human race. Never mind that I belong to it. 

So "Groucho" made a politically astute call... and we accommodated this request, as we're supposed to... and as a result we almost chalked up a _second_ successful assassination since the Service has been on the job of executive protection. 

It's not his fault. It's not ours, either. The fault lies solely in the gunmen. 

But I can sure relate to Toby right now. And to Gina. We came _so close_ this time. Imagine, having the death of a President on your conscience. 

It's what _every_ agent fears most. 


	8. I, Lifesaver 8

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 8 ~ 

June 2000 

Baltimore is a lovely city in its own right. Still, I'm glad to be back in DC, even if only for a day. And I'm amazed at how good it feels to be back in "Crown." All the security tensions, all the _political_ tensions... I can't believe I miss it. 

God forbid that I'm becoming a political junkie. 

Still, the political atmosphere is a _bit_ calmer now than before Rosslyn. ("Before Rosslyn." I'll bet the abbreviation "B.R." will forever mark the state of relative mental peace shared by all of us prior to that watershed moment in this administration.) The First Couple is taking it very easy while "Eagle" recovers, and the West Wing staff seems to be spending as much time tracking "Harvard's" condition as they do the pulse of the nation itself. 

Mark that: the _political_ atmosphere. The emotional one... It's like none of them quite dare to relax or let their guard down, just bracing for the next disaster. 

It was thoughtful of the Department to arrange a special out-of-town rotation, while things are (comparatively) quiet. Certainly those of us who were directly involved in that night appreciate the break. We're as jittery as the rest of them. 

So - I wind up in Baltimore of all places, keeping an eye on "Smurfette." 

Eleanor isn't thrilled with that name. But she chose it herself a year and a half ago, so she's stuck with it for now. She's often wished since that she'd given her choice more thought at the time. I do try not to use it in her hearing. 

The awkward thing is, I think I enjoy these Saturday trips to see her family more than she does herself. It's painfully obvious that she feels more comfortable and relaxed around her mother than her father. 

Well, if _my_ father had been the President of the United States... 

I hope that's _all_ it is. And I hope they both get past it. There's something about being a middle child: caught between the first, the pride of the family, and the last, the pampered baby. 

Ellie has a lot of _both_ parents in her. She's tough, and stubborn, and bright. She'll make her own way in the world, and no American Presidency will slow her down. 

Here she comes. I guess I won't be catching a glimpse of "Eagle" _or_ "Regina" on this visit. Too bad, but them's the breaks. We've better hurry if we're going to beat the sunset. 

She doesn't say a thing as I fall into step. She looked happier than this the last time we came. 

Wait... surely her dad's condition hasn't taken a turn... 

No, they'd have told us. 

By the time we get into the car, though, I really can't stand the silence any longer. At least here we have some privacy. We're in the back seat, with two of my colleagues up front. There is _some_ illusion that she and I are alone. 

"How are your parents doing?" 

When you spend your time watching people - whether because you're responsible for protecting them or possibly for taking them down - you learn to read a lot from postures and expressions and things left unsaid. Right now "Smurfette" refuses to turn from her window, as though she just wants to lose herself in the open air and forget what has gone before. 

"They're okay. My dad's doing pretty well." 

Thank God on high. I admit I was worried even more about his _mental_ recovery. What must it be like to live your life knowing that this nightmare could easily happen to you all over again? 

Strange; wonderful news like that, and still she sounds so emotionless... 

Something's amiss. Maybe I can coax her out. "I'm really glad to hear that." 

No reaction. I don't like this. But I don't want to just give up and spend the drive in silence while something eats away at her. 

"I expect your mother is taking first-rate care of him." 

There - I caught the faintest hint of a grin in her reflection. She knows I've been on "Regina's" detail for months, which means I know "Regina" rather well. Which means further that this young woman and I have at least a bit of a bond here. 

"He's... not the most cooperative patient." 

Oh, I can just imagine: a confined President, a compassionate First Lady (who's also a no-nonsense doctor) losing patience at _his_ impatience, and an administrative staff that's virtually shell-shocked... If this weren't so serious it'd be an Oscar-winning drama. 

My strangely unhappy companion sighs. "Everyone's asking about him." 

Wow... now I'm imagining all the messages of concern and support coming in from around the world. What must it be like to have kings and emperors worry about you? 

Before I can express any of this fresh wonder, she repeats herself - but with a not-so-subtle shift of emphasis. "Everyone asks about _him_." 

Ah; which implies that the rest of the Family is receiving short shrift. Hey, even if one of them _is_ the President, a little attention to other members would not be amiss. 

Now I feel really uncomfortable, and for more reasons than one. First off, I'm overstepping my bounds if I pursue this. Clearly it's a personal matter. Second, this is the first time that my protectee has been younger than I am - and significantly younger at that. I have no mothering experience. 

And third... well, there's that persistent tension in the air whenever she visits... 

"Ellie... if you want to talk, I'm here. Or if you don't, I'll shut up." 

What am I doing? I'm not a psychologist. But... sometimes a person just needs to get it out. 

Silence. Please, don't maintain this wall for the whole trip back... 

"It's nothing, really." From her tone I know _that's_ not true. Fortunately she recognizes it herself. The words are hard to find, though. "It's just that - with my courses, I can't stay around. I'm not _here_." 

She doesn't go on, but she doesn't have to. The missing phrase there is, "Not like Zoey." She wants to see more of her parents, like her kid sister, and she can't. Then there's the added factor that media attention on the First Daughters is significantly up these weeks, especially since the First Couple is so scarce. 

Her stress is filling the cabin of this car. How do I diffuse it? Is there any way I _can?_

Then something bursts. "You know what I want right now? A vacation. I want to get away _so badly_. I don't care where - just anyplace where I can walk around unnoticed. Where there are no crowds, no cameras, no..." 

No bodyguards? _That_ part is not going to happen. At least I don't have to tell her that. 

But the other points... 

God knows she deserves some time away. It's hard to be a celebrity at any age, much less in your youth. I've seen all sorts of personalities try to deal with the exact same quandary. 

Ideas are starting to fit together. 

"Ellie?" I wait, patiently, until she gets the idea that I'm not going to continue until she turns to me. Which she finally does, in rather poor grace. 

"Next weekend is looking reasonably free so far. How about if I arrange a secret holiday for you?" 

Gotcha. I love the open-mouthed guppy look. 

"Surely you and I can come up with some destination that the White House will clear, and that's doable in two and a half days. Now we'd have to drive, so that we can stay in control of events. That _would_ limit the radius a bit more..." 

Her eyes are starting to light up for Christmas. 

"And I'm afraid you'll still need a _few_ agents along. But," I hasten to point out, "that can work to your advantage. No one knows how to give the press the slip better than we do." 

She's not doubting me on that. The Service is the perfect ally in secret travel. We've raised quick getaways, stealth rendezvous and false trails to a fine art. The ever-prying media doesn't stand a chance. 

"Another thing: you're in the news a lot less than Zoey, so on the whole you're far less likely to be recognized. The trick will be to keep everyone from even guessing that you're out and about, so they aren't actively looking. And we can do that, too." 

You know, I think for once this young medical student and daughter of a President is really appreciating the value of full-time protection. 

" _Would_ you?" Yep, you'd think she just got her ultimate Christmas present. Somewhat early, perhaps - but she's sure not complaining. 

I try to keep it nonchalant. Again, I'm pushing the envelope of my job description just a smidgen. I'm not supposed to be a _travel_ agent. "Hey, I know we can be a royal pain at times, but we have to have at least _one_ good side." 

Well. If I'd known before this that I could render "Smurfette" speechless with joy so easily... 

"So. Better start on that list of places you'd like to go. The more choices you offer, and the sooner we submit it, the better odds of them okaying this up front." 

I'd expect her to whip out a pen and paper at once. Huh; looks like I lose that bet; she seems perfectly content to just sit there and stare at me. Now I _can't_ read her expression. 

"You'll be going back to my mom's detail, right?" 

I can't stop the frown. What is she leading up to... "I suppose. Eventually." 

"Too bad." 

Whoa. I have no clue where to go from here. Just log that as the second time my protectee has expressed regret that I'll be leaving. 

* * *

August 2000 

There is only one thing I don't like about accompanying "Regina" to church. 

It's not that I don't believe. I'm very much of a Christian myself. 

It's not that her service is so different from my liturgy of choice. It is, and yet it isn't. I feel quite comfortable in a Catholic setting. 

It's not that I refuse to work on a Sunday. Danger never takes a holiday; someone has to be on guard at all times. I share that guard fairly with my colleagues. 

It's not because "Regina" often ends up going alone, since "Eagle" has a lot less time to spare than she does. She so much prefers attending with her husband, just as they used to do almost every Sunday prior to their White House bid, that she gets mildly depressed whenever he can't make it. 

It's not because, when "Eagle" _is_ free to attend, he almost invariably delivers his own sermon on the way home as to the pros and cons of the sermon we've already heard - and I'm often among his captive audience. (Actually, I think he has a real flair for that sort of thing. He does bring up some interesting points at times.) 

It's not because, if "Eagle" is intercepted by the demands of his office at the last second, then the rest of the day will have a distinct strain to it. He really does hate missing mass, and anyone who presumes to barge in on his Sunday morning with business will get an earful in spades. Unfortunately, so will everyone else around him. 

It's not because the crowds are bigger of late than they've ever been on Sundays past. "Eagle's" health is just about back to normal, and the public wants to celebrate this - which would be totally wonderful, if it didn't add to the overall risk factor and thus make my job a bit more challenging. But that's why I'm here. I can handle it. 

It's not even because the First Couple's mutually reduced workload during the presidential convalescence has allowed them to go more frequently ever since "Eagle" became mobile again, thus tying up both of their details almost every Sunday for two full months. 

The thing is... I'm not at that service to worship myself. I'm there to work. I'm there so that my _protectee_ can worship. 

Which means that I miss my own service, which is held at the same time. Across town. I haven't had a chance to go there for ages. 

Not many other agents seem to enjoy this particular shift. We must employ a lot of agnostics, or at least non-Christians. My name has been cropping up on the roster for Sunday mornings with suspicious frequency of late. I guess someone's observed that I act less uncomfortable in a sacred setting. Okay, fine, but... 

So here I stand, along with several other lucky bodyguards in the same boat, waiting patiently in the Residence. Unlike them, I suspect, I'm caught squarely between fascination at witnessing the First Couple's devotion to their faith... and bitterness that I'm being deprived of my own expression along similar lines. 

I wonder who will be preaching today? St. Martin's has become known as the "President's Church" for this administration; generally speaking, the Bartlets don't attend anywhere else. Preachers are rotated every time the White House confirms that they'll be present, in an effort to give every Catholic priest in town at least one shot at the honor of preaching to the President. I've seen a lot of different styles in sermons, too. Many speakers avoid "Eagle's" discerning eye completely, just a little intimidated... or else they stare at him more than anyone else in the pews, as though to beg for his attention and approval. In any case, it doesn't do your résumé much good if the Head of the Nation scowls or grows impatient at what you have to say. 

Show time. "Regina" is on the move. 

"Good morning, Colleen." She always dresses down a bit for mass. She never likes to attract attention for the sake of attracting attention, and certainly not there. 

"Mrs. Bartlet." I glance past her automatically... but she's very much alone. 

She must've seen that glance, no matter how discreet I tried to be. More likely she's resigned to living in her husband's shadow these years. "The President _should_ be right with us. He got waylaid by a phone call... as so often happens." She _sounds_ resigned, too. Yes, figures. Hopefully he won't have to cancel at the last minute. Although if he does, then the motorcade will be scaled back, and _his_ detail will have their morning off after all. 

I almost envy them. Almost. 

Now that you mention it... if "Eagle" doesn't come with us... then the danger factor will plunge as well. Maybe then I could - 

_Should I ask her?_

No, I shouldn't. I'm supposed to be working. 

_Still, even the Secret Service answers to a higher power..._

I must not compromise her safety. 

_How much of a compromise can it possibly be?_

Any compromise is unacceptable. Live with it. 

_There's more to life than mere survival. Look at how THEY agree on that..._

"Ma'am, may I ask a question?" 

She doesn't hesitate. "Of course." 

_No turning back now..._

"This - is going to sound totally out of line, and I apologize in advance. But... I was wondering if you'd mind if I received Communion with you this morning." 

There, I got it out. Now she'll just say no and that'll be that. 

Ooh; looks like her interest has been peaked. "I didn't know you were Catholic as well." 

Definitely no turning back. Time to burn those bridges behind me. 

"Actually, ma'am, I'm Anglican." I feel like I'm standing before the bench. Come on, girl, this is not a trial for your life! She can't think it's a put-on; I have to feel strongly about this if I'm willing to risk my protectee's displeasure. Not to mention that it's getting harder and harder in our secular society to talk about religion - much less with the _leaders_ of that society. 

"But your tradition is very similar, and I enjoy it." Really, the similarities between the separate Christian denominations far outweigh the differences, but I know a lot of people still don't see it that way. For some, Catholics and Protestants especially do not mix. 

Keep going. "I wanted to ask because it would not be the most appropriate action for me to take while on duty..." Boy, that's an understatement. "And... because I didn't want to offend anyone." I'm sure the Bartlets wouldn't deny me my constitutional right to worship - but they might not feel comfortable with the idea of us worshipping _together_. Singing the same hymns is one thing, but the sacrament itself... After all, I'm just an employee; my job is to be on guard around them, not to indulge my own interests. 

If anyone would be offended, I can see right off that "Regina" isn't one of them. Her scrutiny doesn't have the first hint of judgment or even uneasiness. 

"Of course - you have to miss your own service while you come to ours." 

She's also startlingly astute. After over a year on her detail, she still regularly surprises me. 

"Yes, ma'am. But I'm on duty, and I'm not complaining one bit. I've got no business even thinking about it." 

"Oh, but you do. You have a _right_ , and I'm so glad you mentioned it!" And thus does she set my fears at ease. "I'm sorry that my need for security, and my past ignorance of your beliefs, has deprived you of your own service so often. I don't have the slightest problem with us celebrating our different traditions. Worship is _supposed_ to be done together." 

Then she actually reaches out and grasps my arm. As a friend. "Thank you for sharing that part of yourself with me. Of _course_ you may join us." 

I'm sure she's never looked at me like this before. She and her whole family are surrounded by bodyguards all the time. They've learned through necessity to ignore us. They rely so heavily on us to guarantee their very safety that a lot of them don't quite dare to think of us as individuals - who can be hurt. It must be very easy to forget after awhile that we human shields have our own lives outside of office hours, too. 

Sharing worship will redefine a lot of those boundaries. It creates an extremely personal bond. For me to have that bond with such a remarkable woman... 

Uh-oh; there's a flip side here. If "Regina" allowed her bodyguard to become a _real_ friend... and then that friend was injured or killed in her defense... God, the impact to her would be all the more devastating. 

Judging from this moment, she's more than willing to take that risk. 

I'd better break the spell before I get too emotional with all this gratitude and humility I'm feeling. No sense in damaging my new image in her eyes at once. "You're very kind, ma'am. I'll just call for an extra agent to accompany us." Hm, from her descending brows she didn't make the connection. I'd better elaborate. "Well, there will be a window of a few minutes at least where I won't be as alert as I should." 

How paranoid does that sound - or how faithless? You'd think a simple trust in God should see us safely through; surely He wouldn't let anything happen in the middle of His service. However, there's not much point if I can't concentrate either way. And I don't intend to take any chances with the welfare of the people under my direct care. 

"Oh, forget that." 

Yike - I never heard "Eagle" arrive. 

I guess he heard enough to get the idea... and he sounds pretty dismissive about it. 

Oh, I'm not afraid for one instant that he'll forbid me from attending my own service; it's part of his job to protect religious freedom in this country. But I doubt he's thrilled with the idea of a protector being distracted from safeguarding his wife, by anything. He'll probably make sure I don't get this shift again, for _both_ reasons. 

It might be for the best. Actually _sharing_ with the First Couple, instead of just following them around and watching their backs, is too much to hope for. 

Speaking of hope, I hope "Regina" doesn't fly to my aid. She has no fear of opposing his edicts, but I do _not_ want to be trapped between them. I'm already way out of bounds. 

He walks up to his wife and slips an arm around her. "Sorry for the delay." Good; that phone call won't impinge upon his Sunday respite. The Lord knows he deserves it like no one else. "I put the Secretary of Finance on hold." 

"Not literally, I hope." Seriously, "Regina" has the best deadpan humor. 

"Hey, I should've thought of that! What do you bet he wouldn't have complained, either? But no - I have to call him back Monday." 

"Excellent. Always put off until tomorrow what will make you miserable today." 

"That philosophy would apply to over half of my job." Our leader is no slouch in the comedy department, either. "But since I can't order him to go to Church himself, I won't hesitate to order him to leave me alone so _I_ can go." 

Okay, I'm trying not to laugh here... definitely not my place. 

Then he suddenly fastens those blue eyes on me. I almost have to step back from their sharpness. 

"If we're not safe in the House of God, then we're not safe anywhere. I'm very pleased that you want to join us. I'll just say, too bad you didn't mention this a few weeks ago." 

The pressure needle starts to drop. _Whew..._ So, he was being dismissive for the exact opposite reason I feared. He's a lot more fundamentalist and open-minded about a _very_ conservative subject than I had dared to dream. 

I wonder if I've really started something here. How many _other_ agents might come forward now with similar requests? 

Well, there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, surrounding the First Couple with prayer will only increase their safety, in a way that guns can't. 

He's smiling again. "Oh, and by the by... did you know that the word 'Catholic' actually means 'universal?' One holy and _universal_ Church. _Everyone_ is welcome." 

* * *

September 2000 

Make no mistake: planning a trip of any duration for the First Lady has a lot in common with the preparations to a military campaign. Any error here might not only cost lives, but it will certainly cost face, and ultimately votes. 

In the political world, the last is by far the worst fate of all. 

I'm sure it's even more hectic when the President travels. Am I glad I'm not on _his_ detail. By comparison to _that_ top-secret strategy session, this get-together must seem pretty casual. "Regina" outlines the social and political agenda. "Mayfair" has to work out the administrative details behind the public appearances. I'm responsible for organizing security both in public and in private. Maureen takes notes of everything. 

"Foxtrot" (the First Lady's office) is hardly "Oscar" (the _Oval_ Office), but it's still generous in size. As a rule, though, "Regina" avoids using the full-sized conference table if she can. She hates coming across as the chairperson of the board, or whatever. That's what we picked her husband to do. So we four draw up chairs into a close circle to one side, read briefs off our laps, and concentrate our energies on hammering out a flawless performance - and a safe one. 

We've been at this for over an hour already. Spending the night anywhere but here always adds complications, and not just in security. Also, "Regina" really dislikes being forced to turn down some extra-generous offer from her hosts just because it raises issues of personal safety. Not that I can't arrange sufficient manpower and _fire_ power to guarantee that safety, but we don't want to terrify said hosts with a veritable invasion of professional killers. Between discretion and compromise, providing security for politicians - or politicians' spouses - can be as much of a balancing act as politics itself. 

"Mrs. Bartlet?" 

All four heads bob up like so many groundhogs. A messenger has an envelope. 

"Thank you." Still preoccupied with pulling the last stitches together on this tapestry before us all, "Regina" accepts the envelope absently. The delivery boy leaves at once; the rest of us wait patiently to learn if we'll be resuming this now or later. 

She's got it open before she realizes who sent it. I'm trying not to stare, but I think the sender's logo has a medical feel. Now that can be good news... or bad... 

I've seen a few medical reports before. The abbreviations and values might as well be in a totally foreign language. But "Regina" has no such trouble with translation, her eyes flicking rapidly down the page. 

_Well?_ we three are asking ourselves. 

Her smile is spreading. In fact, by the time she reaches the end, she's virtually aglow. 

"Well!" She sets it down with great satisfaction, and _finally_ decides to share with us. "This is official. The President is back to full health." 

"Mayfair" almost leaps out of her chair in delight. "Wonderful!" Maureen actually applauds. Me, I'm content with just a sigh of relief. After - I count back in my head - fourteen weeks, that disagreeable chapter in our lives together, labeled "Rosslyn," is over at last. 

"Regina" is clearly overjoyed and trying not to show it. I confess to being surprised. After all, this wasn't unexpected. "Eagle" has been back to work for some time already, and doing quite fine. This is just the rubber stamp. 

She glances at the phone on her desk... 

"No. I'm going to tell him personally. We're overdue for a celebration. Everyone take a break." 

Well, that break offer doesn't apply to me in the same fashion, since I'm now playing her shadow rather than her advisor. But it feels good to move around after our blitz session. And delivering such good news to the leader of the free world doesn't hurt either. 

I declare, that final report has really made "Regina's" day. She's composing herself carefully, though; if I weren't this close I'm sure I wouldn't be able to tell. I can't get over how much she wants to share this bulletin with her husband. 

Wait a min... I'm beginning to wonder if I've guessed just what kind of celebration she has in mind. Okay, I'd better not let her see me smile. 

Aw. These two are _so_ touchingly romantic. Decades of marriage, their most recent years in the harshest public scrutiny imaginable, and they are obviously still so close. It's enough to warm anyone's heart. 

I wonder if I might know that same degree of love one day. Maybe... with Brian? 

I think I'll call him tonight. 

* * *

September 2000 

It feels good to travel again, after spending most of the summer in DC. Even with all the minute and tedious arrangements that the shortest trip requires. The wait, and the effort, is more than worth it to come _here_ : Sydney, Australia. The Land Down Under. 

I'll admit it's a long flight... even on an "Angel." 

I'm constantly turning circles, staring in every direction at once. I wasn't part of the advance team this time, so I haven't seen the city _or_ the precautionary measures before today. I feel like I'm going in blind, and bringing "Regina" with me into uncharted, _unsecured_ territory. 

_Relax._ Don't get controlling. I have to trust that my colleagues know how to do the job as well as I do. Even Butterfield, directly in charge of both "Crown" and "Eagle" himself, can't micromanage every last detail. He has to rely on others' skills, too. 

Everything here is fine. We're secure. "Regina" is safe. And popular, drawing crowds and dominating headlines as she always does. 

I hope I'll have enough leisure to explore some on my own. As a rule there's more time when advancing the trip than when actually _on_ the trip, but we'll see. 

This whole continent is unbelievable. I have got to bring Brian here someday! 

"Quebec to Reilly." 

Oh, goody; our local headquarters has something new to add to the setup. Nothing like last-minute complications. "Reilly here." 

"Call Crown at shift end. Butterfield needs to talk to you." 

Uh-oh... _now_ what's happened? 

"He said it definitely can wait for another hour?" 

"Affirmative." 

Sigh of relief. "Big ten. Out." Whatever "it" is, it can't be that urgent. Still, it has to be important, and it has to involve "Regina" directly, or else Butterfield would've dealt exclusively with our HQ. 

Less than an hour to go. Lots of time for the curiosity to fester. 

DC is fourteen hours behind us... for them, it's after three AM. Definitely important. 

What could be so vital that I have to call in as soon as I'm free, but _not_ so vital that I can afford to wait that extra hour? I'm coming up blank here. 

If it were really personal - or if someone's life was at stake - then he'd have ordered up a replacement and waited on the line. We don't worry about the trans-oceanic phone bills. 

Of course, even if it _is_ personal and urgent, I'm a bit too far away to do much... 

Blast this vivid imagination of mine! 

Time never passes so slowly as when you want it to pass. That's a universal constant the world over. 

Finally! Here's my relief. I'll call from my hotel room, just in case. 

"Agent Butterfield." 

You have to love satellite communications. It's as easy as dialing across the street these days, and as clear. "Reilly in Sydney, sir." 

_"Yes, Reilly. I figured you'd want to know this."_

Oh, I don't like that pause... Will you just hurry up and _say_ it? 

"Gina Toscano died in the line earlier tonight." 

Silence, on both ends. 

I find myself sitting on the edge of my bed without having consciously decided to move. 

"Aw, damn." What can a person possibly say? 

She was never the same after Rosslyn. Despite all the advice, all the encouragement, all the words of support, she carried around an almost visible cloud of guilt that she just couldn't - or wouldn't - let go. Within a month she'd asked to be transferred to the Treasury wing, well away from personal protection and any chance of such a disaster happening to her again. 

I remember the day we met, when I suggested that if she wanted a taste of "real" action... And she got that taste on "Bookbag" detail, where it never should have been... and two men under our care nearly died. One of them, the President himself. 

From the few passing mentions that made it to "Crown," she seemed to be happy with her new posting... or at least content. She dove into undercover work with a vengeance, as though that brand of secrecy and danger was a better fit for her temperament - or her mood. Apparently she was good at it, too. 

"What happened?" 

_"She infiltrated a counterfeiting ring a couple of weeks ago. Things went down tonight. There was a firefight."_ My boss doesn't have to say anything more. 

"Did you nail them?" I have to ask. If those murderers got away -! 

_"Every last one. The ringleader will get the chair for her death."_ Ooh; that's a distinct and deadly note in Butterfield's tone. I can't repress a shiver. May his anger never be aimed at me. 

"The thing is, her partners say she was uncharacteristically reckless this time. As though she wanted to break the case open as loudly as possible." 

Suspicion rears its ugly head... "You think - it was a form of _suicide?_ " 

Now that I've said it, the ideas keep coming. An honorable death, to make up for what she failed to prevent before? A way to guarantee that the villains she'd been after wouldn't beat the rap, and at the same time an escape from her oppressive guilt? 

I can hear a deep regret in his sigh. It must really hurt to lose a subordinate as well as a colleague. The responsibility factor can be crushing. Is this what "Eagle" feels when he sends soldiers into battle? _"No one knows. It's certainly possible."_

God, what a shame. Those three white supremacists failed to kill anyone last May, but they've posthumously taken a life for all that. 

Her potential, her identity... gone. 

Automatically, I start processing the big picture. "I won't tell Regina. Not until we're on our way home." Let her finish this visit first. She doesn't need any distractions. 

_"Agreed. I haven't told Eagle or Bookbag yet, either."_ Of course not, since Zoey would probably call her mother at once. 

"When's the funeral?" I'd really like to be there. Well, not _like_ , but you know... 

"Day after tomorrow, noon, Winchester, Virginia." 

Time differential... We'll be in the air - and barely over California. Not even "Angel" can fly that fast. The pain in my chest increases. "Regina and I won't make it back in time." 

_"I know."_ He doesn't apologize; there's nothing he can do about it. 

It's my turn to sigh. "Bookbag will probably want to go." 

"I'm clearing her schedule secretly, and arranging security. Others of ours will be there, anyway." 

Silence. There's really nothing more to discuss. "Thanks for telling me." 

"Call me before you speak to Regina. I'll tell her family at the same time." 

"Understood." 

I hang up, and just sit there, staring blindly at the opposite wall. 

Good thing I won't have to look "Regina" in the eye until tomorrow. I'll be able to hide it by then. 

Why am I so upset? I wasn't even a friend, not really. And I'm so far away... 

But Gina and I were comrades in arms. 

Lord, have mercy on her... 


	9. I, Lifesaver 9

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 9 ~ 

October 2000 

How can _anyone_ call this work? It's a beautiful fall day, I'm in the country, and I'm on _horseback._

All right, girl, get your head out of the clouds. You're still on duty. That's no BB gun rubbing its stock against your knee. 

I can't help it. "Horseradish" is magnificent. The Bartlets have got themselves such a spread! Man, I'd have turned my back on the world and ensconced myself right here for the rest of my days in a single heartbeat. 

Of course, we guardians of paranoia had to waltz in and contaminate this wilderness paradise with pillboxes, floodlights, alarms, sensors, radar, and a small army of expert shooters constantly on the lookout for trouble. There are guards in the stables, in case someone tries to dope a horse and cause an "accident." Hell, there are guards in the _house_. And as long as the current Family members live here, we won't be going away anytime soon. 

At least when I patrol the grounds this way, I feel a bit less invasive. I've got a mount with spunk, a comfortable Western saddle, and I'm wearing enough denim and leather to feel perfectly at home. I can live with the less homogenous fact that my belt holster carries an automatic pistol rather than a six-shooter, and that the rifle scabbard contains a very un-frontier-like high-powered J.A.R. ("Just Another Rifle," they call it. Yeah, sure. Trust me, it _ain't_.) And the trifling detail that lives may depend upon my staying alert and observant. 

My love for horses and Texas aside, this really is the best way to patrol the farm's sprawling acreage. The terrain is generally uneven, and the open pastures are flanked by thick forests where vehicles could never go. A horse can't outrun or outlast an engine on the flat, but it's plenty fast enough here - especially since I'm always wired into the communications net. Besides, riding is a lot quieter, so I'm more likely to hear any strange sounds, and it's easy to search for ground signs while my trusty mount picks a clear path himself. 

All things considered, quartering the "Horseradish" expanse is so made to order for my tastes that the hardest part is to keep from being distracted. The leaves are a rhapsody of color this weekend, the weather is perfect, and the horses are eager to go! 

Earth to Colleen: your shift's not over yet. I rein up a small hill and pull out my very modern binoculars. There's the house, a gorgeous colonial building. I don't see much movement; the Family must be relaxing, and all of _us_ have to keep it subtle around here. The Bartlets insist on some freedom in their own home if nowhere else. 

No sign of the other mobile sentries, either, even though I know they're out there just as I am. If a person judged solely from distant observation - which is as close as they'd ever be allowed to get - they might never know there was any more security than the main gate. And if they attempted to trespass... well, let's just say they'd regret it in a big hurry. I've snuck up on reporters out here before. In this mechanical age, being pursued by an armed rider is scarier than one might expect - especially if the pursuee is still on foot. From my perspective, that's the greatest fun of all! 

The days are glorious, especially in summer and autumn. But in a way nights are even better, unless the weather is really lousy. The horses can see fine, and we weak humans get night-vision goggles. You feel like you're totally invisible, and invulnerable to boot! __

Okay, I have time for one more tour of the north forty. Our patrols are always changing; we never keep to a predictable pattern. It's just as well that I'm almost done; this day is so beautiful, it's dangerous... 

"Michael to Reilly." 

Oh, what is it now? Can't our Manchester HQ wait for one more half-hour? "Reilly here." 

"Bookbag needs a riding escort." 

Oh, boy! Now for the _third_ highlight of working here. "Bookbag" is the best rider in the Family. I may not be quite as good, but everyone seems convinced that I'm the Service's top hand, and I'm definitely the only one who's brave enough (or reckless enough) to try to keep up with her on horseback. I wouldn't miss escorting this First Daughter for the world. 

"On my way. I'll have to skip a final swing through North-two-one, so tell my relief to start there. And have Timber saddled for me." I'll need a fresh mount for sure - a sharp one. 

"Big ten. Briggs is being dispatched to cover you. Out." 

"Come on, Six-Pack." Whoever names the Bartlet saddle stock must have as much fun as the people who choose Secret Service code names. 

This piebald pinto has had a full shift himself, so I don't push the pace. In a straight line we've got only a mile or so to go. Besides, I'll get more than enough fast riding soon. 

A straight line also means there's one creek between us and the horse barn... 

Whether it's jumping or flat racing, equitation is the closest we'll ever come naturally to genuine flight. 

There's "Bookbag", in fringed buckskin, looking like the reincarnation of Annie Oakley. Her palomino mare is also handsomely decked out. I feel pretty plain by comparison. But then, I'm just the ranch hand. 

She applauds lightly as I dismount. "Nice jump." 

"Thanks. Coming from you, that's high praise indeed." I quickly strip off my lariat and scabbard; I'll need them even more for personal protection service. "Now I'm sure you'll show me how it's _supposed_ to be done." The stable boy brings my new mount, a rangy sorrel, and I give Six-Pack a grateful rub as he's led away in turn. 

"We'll see." Zoey lounges in her saddle, trying to look modest. We both know she can ride circles around me; we also know she'll give me at least a fighting chance. 

"Ladies! Wait up!" 

Eep! There is no chance of mistaking that voice. I come to attention without meaning to. 

"Mr. President." 

I can _not_ get used to seeing him in a denim shirt, jeans and sneakers. "Eagle" is an office as much as a man, and I balk at that office every single time - even here. 

"What's up, Dad?" Funny; I'd almost say that "Bookbag" looks _suspicious_. 

The Man is obviously in one of his more expansive moods. Just getting away from "Crown" is a major contributor, I'm sure. "Well, you won't believe this, but I've just witnessed a minor miracle: I actually have some free time." Of course his tremendous responsibilities still follow him everywhere. "So I thought I'd come with you." 

Oh, my Lord. My heart is an elevator, and the cables just snapped... 

"You're not serious!" 

Attagirl, Zoey; _please_ talk him out of it... 

He looks up at her. "What - you don't want to be seen with me?" Uh-oh; I don't trust that roguish sparkle in the executive eye. 

She gives him back as good, his daughter all the way. "Hardly." 

"You think I can't go riding on my own homestead whenever I feel like it?" 

"No..." 

"You think I don't know _how_ to ride?" 

"No!" 

"You think I can't keep up with you?" 

"Well -" 

She winces at once, realizing her mistake. So do I. No matter how right she may be about _that_ , some people just can't resist a challenge. 

"Okay, that settles it." Her father sure won't back down now. "I'll get Stardust." 

I manage to exhale silently. This will be _my_ one chance to dissuade him. "Mr. President, if you are coming, we'll need a couple more people along as well." 

Surprisingly, the idea of being surrounded by bodyguards on his own land doesn't deter him. He _is_ in a good mood. "Fine! We'll have a real posse!" 

I can't stop my smile this time. All he needs is a ten-gallon hat and a star... Zoey's grinning as well, probably with the same thought. 

"You decide who and what we need. I'll tack up Stardust." "Eagle" rubs his palms together eagerly. " _Don't_ call the groom; I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. You should always tack up your own mount. That way you know it's been done right." 

He has a point. Assuming you know how, and if you have the time... 

"Oh, and never let anyone else take care of your tack, either. A weak strap can kill you." 

I wince again. Just what I wanted to be reminded of around _him!_

I wait until he vanishes into the stable, and until my heart rate has steadied a bit. "Reilly to Michael. Eagle is riding, too. We'll need at least two more guys." 

_"Big ten."_ Do I hear amusement in the confirmation? Or was it sympathy? 

I resume fastening my hardware to Timber's saddle. All of a sudden my fingers are not cooperating. Essentially, I'm going to be part of "Eagle" detail today. 

Butterflies... 

We keep the estate secure; no one's out there to try anything. 

This is his ancestral home; he knows the place, and he's been riding for most of his life. 

I sure hope he rides horses better than he rides bicycles. 

The fact that horses can think for themselves is both advantageous and _dis_ advantageous. 

For a moment I have to stop and just shudder, struck by visions of him getting crushed under his fallen mount, or flying through the air... 

Then "Bookbag" gigs her mare closer to me. Has she guessed at my very real terror? 

"You'd better make sure there are some good first-aiders in this posse." 

Oh, like _that_ is supposed to calm my nerves? 

"My dad's been known to fall into the creek before." 

And the tension breaks. Which must have been what she had in mind. 

I won't ask if she's fibbing for my benefit or telling the truth - but I know that mental image will carry me a long way today. 

* * *

November 2000 

On any helicopter, even the well-appointed _Marine One,_ conversation without headphones is more trouble than it's worth. You can get away from the turbines' roar on a bird the size of "Angel," but here the constant chatter of the rotors overpowers everything else. 

Likewise, "Nighthawk" is nowhere near as roomy... or as heavily armored. But for short hops, it's perfect. And it has one small consolation: all equipment is right at hand. 

According to regs, "Eagle" must occupy the center chair, furthest from all walls and windows, facing forward. "Regina" most often chooses to sit across from him. They can't chat in mid-flight without practically shouting, so each opens up something to read instead. But every now and then I see them trade glances, smiles, narrowed eyes and raised brows... almost as though they're communicating through a form of genuine telepathy. If I wasn't supposed to be on duty even here, I'd be perfectly content to sit back and watch them instead - 

The rotors just skipped a beat. 

It's the very same thing, whether you're in a car, plane or train. Eventually you cease to notice the eternal background noise - unless it changes - which it _never_ should - 

That reassuring rhythm stutters again. Will and I turn to each other at once. All presidential craft are constantly checked for mechanical soundness. What could possibly cause - 

A yell from the cockpit _and_ my earphone: _"We're losing power!"_

_ALERT._ Either someone just shot at us, or else something just broke - 

The Bartlets hear that shout as well. And they know full well what it means. I glimpse the first, shocked look between them. 

The whole machine lurches. "Eagle's" newspaper and "Regina's" medical text go flying. 

_"Nighthawk, MAYDAY!"_

Dear God. It's really happening. We're going down - and the First Couple with us. 

"Crash prep!" Will orders. He and I are unbuckled and out of our seats in a flash. We have mere seconds to do what we can to ensure that _they_ at least survive. 

"Nighthawk" never flies alone. Other choppers flank us, and squad cars are stationed along our route. However, none of them can help one bit until we're on the ground - one way or another. There are six of us aboard, total. Besides the pilot and copilot, Will and I are the only protection our leader and his wife have at this instant. 

The reason more agents don't fly with the Bartlets is the simple fact that, sealed inside this steel box, there's precious little _anyone_ can do in mid-air. 

But we know exactly what we _can_ do; we've rehearsed many times. I yank open a nearby locker and drag out an armload of pillows. Will already has the safety webbing out as well. 

Then "Eagle" grabs for his seat belt - to _release_ it. "Wait, let me change seats -" 

Will physically shoves him back into place. "No time!" No time for protocol, either. He's already piling pillows in The Man's lap and across his chest, and strapping down the extra harness, essentially tying the President of the United States to his chair. 

I'm doing the same for "Regina," trying hard not to lose my balance as the floor _drops_. But even over the pounding noise and vibration all around us - irregular and worsening - I hear my colleague's almost whispered codicil: "I'm sorry." 

So am I. That had been the gut instinct of a husband going to his wife in a crisis. He wants to be beside her, to hold her. Instead he's trapped, just out of reach. 

If there _was_ time, we would've permitted it. _But there isn't -_

I can't _not_ notice that "Regina" is very quiet, very still, deceptively calm, gripping the armrests with milk-white knuckles. They've both been drilled in this sort of procedure, too... hoping never to need it... 

She's not looking at me at all. As I frantically rush to latch the webbing behind her, though, I can't resist a compulsive urge to glance up. And in that fractured moment, I get a priceless snapshot of time itself. 

The two of them are focused body and soul on each other. Completely ignoring our desperate efforts to secure them in place. Conscious only of the harrowing likelihood that they will both die in the next few seconds. Their eyes are locked, unblinking, wide and bright. His expression is stern; hers is tight-lipped. Anything they might want to say in their last breath is somehow transmitted right now. Together, yet apart. 

"Brace for impact!" 

I shake off that haunting, _personal_ image, snap the last catch tight, and leap for my own chair. So does Will. There's one more step we should've taken - the fire blankets - but that bellow from up front tells us we're truly out of time. All we can do now is pray that the First Couple aren't either crushed or incinerated at once... and that we two pull through this as well, so that we can stick with them. 

The deck heaves _upwards_. The pilot saved his last bit of power for this moment, to level out and soften the actual meeting with the ground - 

The President and the First Lady hold onto each other's presence with all their strength - 

I throw myself into my seat, scramble for my belt, shove the catch into place - 

The _click_ is drowned out by the horrendous sound of rupturing metal. But it clicked in time; I hit the belt's limit hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. 

Anything not bolted down sails overhead, as well as some things I'm sure _were_ bolted down. 

The lights go out. 

At least the chopper doesn't explode on contact - but a blast of hot smoke from at least two different angles hints at a slower, more painful, no less surer death to come. 

The second I'm sure that the motion, the thunder, is over, I reach for my belt clasp again. I'm gasping painfully from bruised ribs, but I can stand. Our only light source now is two small windows, both blown out. Still, blessedly, the cabin remained pretty much intact, and upright. 

"Ma'am?" 

She's alive. And reasonably well; the webbing and pillows did their job. Now I have to get her out of here. I strip off the safety measures at once and unfasten her belt, then help this badly-shaken woman to her feet. 

A fresh wave of heat rolls over us; I at once move between it and her. We can barely see or breathe. "Come on!" The door is still closed, but I know it's right over there - 

Dark shapes in the haze straight ahead - 

I don't believe it: the two Marines survived as well, and after bringing us down in one piece to boot. And they know what to do next; get that hatch open _now_. 

Suddenly "Regina" balks, despite me pressing her forward. Her head turns. "Jed -" 

I look back as well. There's very little light and the smoke is getting thicker every instant - I can't see more than three feet - _no other movement -_

"Don't worry, ma'am; Will has him." I know that for a fact. 

Something hauls me to a full stop. The First Lady has dug her fingernails into my arm - a grip that shrieks of import. 

"My husband..." Every word rings with vital importance. "... is afraid of fire." 

_Oh, hell._ I didn't know that. _His_ detail would, of course, since they might have to handle a protectee who's not thinking clearly. But the rest of us don't need such personal information. Not normally - 

Phobias know no reason. If "Eagle" panics - or freezes - and he's no featherweight to just pick up and carry - Will's gonna need help - 

But I'm responsible for "Regina's" very life! She has _no one else._

_What do I do?_

The smoke, the heat, the _fire_ , is growing - this whole crate could explode _right now_ \- 

The two men unaccounted for are losing time _fast_ \- 

The chopper hatch bursts open, letting in light and air. Instantly my mind clears of all indecision. 

"Get her out of here." I literally push "Regina" towards the Marines, towards the exit. I can trust them to protect her. I take one gulp of oxygen, and turn back into the shattered cabin. 

I will find our leader and get him to safety. I swear it. 

The breeze and light through the open door drive back the smoke, the heat and my own fear. A bit. I can see more. Of course I expect two familiar shapes to come towards me at any instant. I'm risking myself unnecessarily; they're both going to appear, not needing my help - _any_ second now - 

And _still_ nothing. The clock is ticking down faster and faster - 

I look for the chairs. Is he still tied down? Helpless, unable to escape? 

And where is Will? 

There - "Regina's" seat and mine. Across from them - 

One chair is twisted sideways, barely recognizable - and empty. 

The other - is _gone_. 

I get the idea: the chopper deck fractured at this spot on impact, wrenching the President's chair apart and creating jagged, knife-sharp steel edges that slashed through the safety webbing and the seat belt as well. "Eagle" must've been pitched right out of his seat. 

And Will's seat was torn right out of the floor. 

The smoke is still spreading, stinging my eyes, and I can't hold my breath much longer. The urge to flee is almost overwhelming. But I'm not leaving without them. 

A roaring, leaping flare of orange-red mere yards ahead; the flames are building. They're mostly at the rear of the wreckage - which is where I have to go. In just another few heartbeats they'll either suffocate me or barbecue me - if they don't detonate the fuel first. Yet right now they also light my path - 

There - the missing chair, flat on the deck. 

Under it - still strapped in - not moving - 

No. 

The hot tears wash out the smoke, for a moment. They also blind me further. For a moment. 

Get the job done. I can't do anything for Will. What I _can_ do - is protect the President. 

_Where_ is "Eagle"? He _has_ to be here _someplace! I've got to find him!_

But after being tossed around like that, how badly hurt is he? 

The heat is murderous. Now my _skin_ is stinging. And the flames, brighter, closer - the smoke squeezing my throat - 

A human shape - I can just make it out - straight ahead - _standing_ \- 

But _not moving_ \- 

"Sir!" It can't be anyone else. 

He's riveted in place. Watching the fire's approach with hypnotic intensity. It has such a hold on his mind that nothing else penetrates - even his own danger. 

I stagger over, seize a handful of executive blazer, and yank. _"Sir!"_

His head swings around. Miraculously, he appears to be uninjured, as well as I can see in this scarlet nightmare. Clearly he managed to rise unaided after the landing, after his tumble. But his face is blank. His eyes reflect the glow of the death closing in on us both. 

No time for this! I latch onto his other lapel with my free hand and shake him. I'm assaulting the President. _"Move!"_

Behind me is light, air, _life_. And no fire. He must see that, even as he sees me - 

Before my own eyes, the spell breaks. Suddenly he's aware of himself again. 

_"Abbey!"_ Of course she's the first thing he'd think of. 

"She's safe!" I've got almost no breath left, no strength to spare. No way can I physically force him to come. If he won't comply... I yank weakly, one last time. "But _we're not!_ " 

This is not about me - but I'm on the verge of panic - he's _got_ to snap out of it - 

Wonder of wonders, now he responds, and comes with me. 

The door... it's back that way. I can't see it anymore. I'm choking on the black clouds all around. I can hardly stand. But I'm going to get him out of here. He _has_ to make it. 

One step... two... pulling him after me... 

Can't breathe... need air... 

Air outside... got to get there... got to get _him_ there... 

Can't see... going the right way...? 

Heat crackling behind me... driving me onward... fire licking at our heels... I'm in the lead... he's even closer to the flames... I hear him cough... got to move faster... _faster_... 

Stumbling... _falling_... 

Get up... mustn't fail... "Regina's" counting on me... Will is, too... the whole country... get up... get _up_... 

Can't... breathe... so... tired... 

_Air!_ And light, and coolness, and shouting voices, and... 

Grass. I just landed on grass. Have I been falling for the past hour? 

"Mr. President! You're okay!" 

"Over here, sir!" 

"Abbey?" 

"Jed -" 

I squint upwards... just in time to see "Regina" run into "Eagle's" arms. 

They're together. They're _alive._

And for the longest span of their lives, neither was certain that they'd ever see each other again. 

Can you imagine what she felt, as the flames spread and the seconds raced by without any sign of him? 

What must _he_ have felt, in that cold instant when he came out of his trance, grasped the threat, and realized that he didn't know where she was? That he'd been frozen there, wasting vital time, while _both_ of them were at risk? 

Uniforms all around. The flight escort and ground support have arrived and taken charge. The First Couple is safe. 

I can rest. 

I sure can't do anything else. Not move, not even cough... not even smile, as the Bartlets stand there, head against head. I doubt they're saying a thing; it's enough just to be reunited. Then they yield to their rescuers' firm encouragement and head for their new transportation, still holding each other. 

I wonder what happened to our _old_ transport. It sounds more like a mechanical failure than an actual missile. Or... could it have been sabotage? 

Great; more excuses for paranoia. 

I'm too tired to care right now. That's someone else's job... 

I can still hear the flames, but the _fwoosh_ of extinguishers and hoses is taking over, and the smoke and stench are clearing. And I'm safe, on cool grass, in gentle sunshine. All is well. 

"Your turn, Agent Reilly." Someone - I think it's our very talented pilot - starts to help me up. "You'll need treatment for smoke inhalation at the very least." 

I'm not very cooperative. My muscles are strengthless; my throat and lungs feel charred. It'll be a wonder if I don't develop a fear of fire myself. 

But we escaped. By the skin of our teeth to be sure, yet we made it. Thank You, Lord. 

I sure hope "Eagle" deals with the memory okay. So long as he didn't actually _look_ at the flames, he seemed to handle it all right. Maybe he can beat that phobia - if this close call doesn't make it even stronger instead. 

"You did great. You saved the President." 

If I hadn't gone back in there... if I'd played it by the book... he'd still be inside... _the President would be dead!_

"I have to say, that was a gutsy thing to do. Even for him. I've been in a burning house before; I know what the terror is like." 

I wouldn't have left that inferno without him... if I hadn't found him... or if I'd found him half a minute later... I would've died with him... and Will... 

"You know, it might be more accurate to say that you saved each other." 

If I hadn't been so desperate to get _him_ out, I wouldn't have pushed myself so hard, and might not have got us both to the door in time... And if he hadn't shaken off that fear in the end, if he'd resisted me in any way, or even just held out a few seconds longer... 

But he pulled himself together. His wife was waiting for him. The nation was counting on him, too. And I'd braved the fires of that small-scale hell to find him. Together, these factors enabled him to conquer the fear. 

I'm coughing terribly now, but the cool air is a Godsend. Still, it makes my skin burn even more. Fortunately, it also clears my head further. 

"How... did I... get him out?" I thought I fell, before we reached the door. I was _sure_ I fell. Did I manage to get up again after all and lead him to safety? Or were we trapped so long inside that nightmare that the cavalry got here first and charged in to rescue us both? I don't remember... 

No, it must've been someone else. I fell. I _failed_... 

"Well, strictly speaking, _he_ carried _you_ out." 

What... 


	10. I, Lifesaver 10

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 10 ~ 

November 2000 

I swear computers are sentient life forms actively plotting to take over the world. In fact, by now their infiltration is just about complete. We're at the point where we can't do _anything_ without them. If aliens ever wanted to conquer humanity (although I can't imagine what possible use we could have), all they'd need to do is knock out the electricity. No computers, no air conditioning, and no coffee. _Fait accompli._

Still, these obstinate machines are just so _useful_ at times that I can almost convince myself it's worth it to be this vulnerable. Almost. Maybe I've been in security too long... 

As a matter of fact, I know for certain that there's only one desk in the entire White House without a PC: the desk in the Oval Office itself. 

I don't think I'll dwell on "Eagle's" long-standing personal battle with technology tonight. I've just spent four hours fighting the same battle myself. 

It's an open secret that the Pentagon has the single highest-rated computer system, in terms of both capability and security, anywhere in the States and probably the world. Or, to be more accurate, it's a very carefully maintained image. For the well-being of the nation, it has to be an accepted fact. Aside from constant upgrades, they also have people always on the lookout for signs of even better systems anywhere else. 

Trailing the military by a _very_ narrow margin is the Secret Service. Our command post is so crammed with bleeding-edge-of-technology equipment that I've become seriously disenchanted with my laptop at home. But if we're going to protect the First Family, "Crown," senior politicians and advisors, past Presidents and foreign diplomats, we've got to be up there with the best of them - and the _worst_. 

And it pays off. I think I've just spent the most satisfying evening in front of a monitor in my life. When you're going through files of suspected troublemakers and _proven_ troublemakers every day, you get to know the individuals behind the bald numbers. It's like building a chain: each byte of data adds another fragment to the personality sketch and another link to potential intent. Bit by bit, several agents tracking the same case over several shifts and several weeks all end up contributing to the end picture: whether this particular name among endless thousands is a genuine threat or not. 

Tonight was a bit of a record-breaker. Not only did I help establish the missing key that will finally lead to a man's arrest before he and his freedom-fighting buddies can instigate a massacre, but one of the other guys just stumbled across evidence of a previously-unknown female religious cult that bears far too close a resemblance to the Branch Davidian. One likely hot spot identified, and one neutralized. This high-tech angle of the Service was one of the smartest ideas in a long while. We can eliminate trouble _before_ it breaks, and prevent a lot of pain for a lot of different people - in some cases, all over the country. 

Effective though it be, it's not easy. I have got _such_ a headache. Man, the sheer amount of proof we need to pile up before we dare make a _real_ move... 

But the day is done. I'm heading upstairs and home. 

It's almost midnight. The West Wing is fairly quiet. Some of my colleagues are at their graveyard posts; we trade slight nods as I pass. There might be a hint of envy in some of those glances; they'll be facing the same computers before their shifts end, too. 

I slow down automatically as I pass the curved walls of "Oscar," wondering if "Eagle" is still inside. No - I _know_ he's inside. The silent, motionless presence of Robin and Donnie prove that. At least "Regina" should have turned in by now. 

A yell down the hall - 

All heads turn - 

Wait; it's not a sign of trouble, but a cheer of victory. 

I know who's coming before they turn the corner. Few people indeed would dare to holler like that anywhere in the White House, much less this close to the Oval Office. It has to be... 

Yep. "Eagle's" four senior staffers burst into view, obviously tickled pink with themselves right now. "Harvard" and "Princeton" are leading the way, arms thrown around each other's shoulders in self-congratulation. "Flamingo" is right behind them, laughing as she comes. Hard on her heels, "Groucho" is - smiling? I don't believe it. Whoa; they must've just pulled off one hell of a political coup. 

The two boys in front are still applauding their own genius. I can't make out anything more articulate than how great they are at their games. Sports analogies, wouldn't you know. Now they're spinning each other around in an ecstatic little dance. I actually have to flatten myself against the wall to avoid being run down. Man, whatever they've done this time, it overrides even the rules of the road. And I'm the one with the firearm, too - 

"All right!" Oops; "Dexter" heard the commotion as well. He's just standing outside his own office, files in hand, but few people can hope to look as stern as he can. The four partygoers calm down quite a bit. "Are you finally done blowing out the candles?" 

Well, they _were_ acting like kids... 

"And we got our wish, too!" "Princeton" announces, far too happy to let a boss's rebuke bother him for long. 

"Dexter's" craggy features soften into a grin of his own. "Damned well about time. Get in here; the President's waiting." 

I resume my own course. None of this involves me... 

Still, I can't help wondering what went so right for them. It must be important to the administration's goals, or else that quartet wouldn't be involved in the first place. But the odds are I'll never know. A lot of what these people do never makes the papers. Sometimes they don't _want_ it in the papers, but sometimes it's so subtle and delicate - or preventative - that the public just doesn't notice. 

Either way, one gets the impression that there aren't as many victories around here as there should be. 

It's not so different from what I accomplished myself tonight. Tiny steps still require huge efforts at times... and tiny steps can have far-reaching consequences. I think I understand how they feel. Congratulations to them all. 

* * *

December 2000 

"Thatcher has been released into federal custody, pending psychological evaluation and legal prosecution. Flamingo is staying in Romeo, at the personal request of the Bartlets, until Sunday at least." 

Butterfield has the undivided attention of everyone at this briefing, more so even than usual. His expression is creeping dangerously near to real fury at what the White House Press Secretary had been subjected to over the past four days. 

Understandable. As a White House employee, CJ Cregg falls under his mantle of protection. 

But... is that the _only_ reason he's so incensed? 

The Secret Service is founded upon the protection of the innocent, whether from phony money or from physical attack. We've all seen the nastiest and scariest sides of humanity. We're here so that others don't have to go through the same thing. 

What must it have been like, kidnapped by a psycho? I can't prevent a shiver. I've run risks any number of times where people would kill me in a heartbeat if they suspected who I was, but I've still never been through anything like _her_ nightmare - and as a result, I can't understand. Not really. It's amazing the woman escaped with her sanity. 

"Eagle has ordered the creation of Flamingo detail for the next while. He was not more specific; its duration will depend upon her rate of recovery." 

Good. Take the very best care of her - and not just for her own sake. When she vanished, this House plunged into thinly-veiled chaos. 

It defies belief sometimes as to how you can come to rely so heavily on one person without realizing it... until that one person is no longer around. It's not that the West Wing can't function administratively without one member of its senior staff, even the most publicly visible member; it's that the people can't function emotionally without one of their close comrades. 

Then there were the repercussions I witnessed for the First Family itself... 

"Reilly, you've been recommended." 

"Me?" Curious. I'm not the only woman in "Crown" right now, and I've got my own protectee - the First Lady, no less. She kind of ranks the Press Secretary... 

"By Regina." 

Whoa. Now that is a compliment. It tells me even more how much "Flamingo" means to the Bartlets personally, as well as how much "Regina" trusts me to do the job. 

Am I blushing? I better not be; something tells me this won't be simple. "Yes, sir." 

"Good. Come with me; we'll go to Foxtrot now. The rest of you, that's all." 

If I have to be briefed on my new duty by "Regina" herself, in her own office, rather than by Butterfield here as per normal, then this is even more serious than I suspected. 

Most people in "Crown" don't know me by sight. I could easily be one more female employee in a pantsuit. However, everyone knows the coordinator of White House security, and as we traverse the West Wing's busy halls they get out of our way, fast. Of course people grant "Eagle" space, in natural respect for his authority, and they give ground to "Regina" as well (admittedly, in honor of her husband's position)... but they genuinely fear Ron Butterfield. Not without reason, either. 

Those who don't know me are probably wondering if I'm a guest - and an important one, to merit an escort by the President's personal agent - or if I'm in trouble. _Big_ trouble. 

Those who do know me also know that I can be almost as dangerous as my boss is. Not that even I'd want to pick a fight with _him_. 

We pass Emmett at attention in the East Wing hall, right between "Foxtrot" and "Mayfair's" office. Looks like I might not be relieving him today after all... 

"Regina" is waiting for us. "Close the door, please, Ron." 

Three chairs are grouped in the middle of the room, same as when we plan trip itineraries. This is far more grave; usually that door stays open. 

She waves us into seats, then slowly joins us. I watch her carefully. There's a definite crackle of tension, rather unlike the self-possessed First Lady. 

"Colleen, I'm sure by now you have all the facts on CJ's abduction and rescue." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

She pauses, apparently choosing her words with care. "What I'm going to tell you now is the human angle. Ron is in on this because he led the rescue team; he understands how much of an impact the nightmare has had on CJ mentally." 

I can feel my muscles clenching at this build-up, bracing for the worst. 

"In a nutshell, CJ spent two and a half days in a constant state of terror. Her abductor is certifiably insane. In a way, that's even worse than a sadist - you can't predict his thoughts or actions, you can't reason with him... you have absolutely no idea what he might do next. You can't tell if the most innocent move or word will trigger an eruption of violence. And _not_ knowing is the worst horror of all." 

I'm shivering again. Not just from this vivid description, but also from the empathic anguish in "Regina's" dark eyes. 

"I won't go into details; it's too private and too traumatic. Somehow, CJ found the fortitude to endure, and in the end to fight him. I really don't know if I could have done the same. Even so, Ron and the others arrived at the absolute last second: the monster was just about to either rape her, or kill her. Possibly both." 

My teeth are clenched so tightly my jaws ache. _No_ woman should have to go through that! 

But far too many women do. Every single day. 

Maybe... just maybe, if I can learn a little about it here, now, I'll be a bit better prepared - if, God forbid, I should ever find myself in an even vaguely similar situation. 

"After the rescue I stayed right with her." Butterfield looks terribly uncomfortable; I've never seen this side of him. "I took her to the hospital, and I brought her here as soon as she was released. The whole time she was very skittish around all strangers - and all men." Which would have included him. I don't think he likes to be feared for _that_ reason. 

"And she will be for awhile yet." I flinch at "Regina's" sigh of pure sorrow. "At least her _physical_ injuries were slight. Gradually, and with our help, she'll recover mentally as well." 

I'm beginning to get the picture here... "So you're not thinking that she's at risk of further assault. This detail is not so much to keep her safe - as to make her _feel_ safe." 

"Exactly." For a moment, "Regina" flashes the briefest hint of a smile. "In fact, it's for _our_ peace of mind as well. You saw how the Senior Staff reacted when CJ disappeared. All of them, and the President as well - never mind me as her doctor - will breathe easier knowing she's never alone and vulnerable. And certainly it'll do _her_ good to know that we're determined to protect her from any conceivable harm." 

"We'll start slow, to get her used to the idea." My boss relaxes a bit; planning security strategy is much more familiar turf to him. "While she's staying in the Residence, you're on duty whenever she comes downstairs. That'll basically be a day shift. You might start as early as this afternoon, depending on how she feels about being around other people so soon." 

"Your first task will be to make sure the guys don't swarm her." The First Lady manages to say that with a straight face. This time I'm the one who smiles. 

"When Mrs. Bartlet decides that CJ is ready to return to her own home, you'll switch to a night shift. We're arranging to rent the vacant apartment across the hall from hers. By then, our expectation is that she'll be comfortable enough without constant companionship while she's in the safety of the White House itself. You'll bring her to work in the morning and take her home in the evening, or wherever else she may wish to go, and you'll keep watch through the night. In case she needs you." 

"Regina" is looking at me _very_ seriously. "For any reason at all." 

I'm getting the distinct impression that this detail will require a hefty dose of applied psychology as well. "Flamingo" is a few years older than I am, and certainly better educated, but I rather doubt that will matter. What she's going to need most is undemanding company to help chase away the fear. 

Now I really understand why I was chosen. I've spoken candidly to "Hallmark" before. I've also offered "Regina" personal support in the past, and I bucked up "Smurfette" once as well. Of course, I never thought at the time that I was studying for this level of responsibility. CJ must be extremely fragile right now. 

My boss isn't done yet. "This detail will continue until Mrs. Bartlet judges that CJ is fully recovered." 

That could be a long time... or perhaps not so long after all. "Flamingo" earned her position in this male-dominated world of federal politics. She had the courage to fight her attacker. She's strong enough to regain her life. 

"Regina" hasn't taken her eyes off me, as though she can read my thoughts as fast as I can think them. "Are you willing to accept this assignment?" 

So, I have a choice. Such a delicate and important duty shouldn't be forced on anyone. 

But whom else do they have? 

This isn't an assignment - it's a _commission_. The current Press Secretary is every bit as vital to the stability of this White House as the First Family is to the entire nation. 

I can do it. I will protect CJ from everything - including her own awful memories. I'll give her the strength and security she needs... and I imagine I'll learn from her in turn. Sounds like more than a fair deal. 

If the West Wing staff and the First Family benefit as well, so much the better. 

It's hard to sit at attention, as opposed to standing, but I try anyway. "Yes, ma'am. CJ Cregg will be safe in my care." 

* * *

December 2000 

The car interior is quiet. 

Not a peaceful quiet where people just enjoy each other's presence. Not a tired quiet after a long day. Not even an awkward quiet when you're not really sure what to say next. This is a teeth-clenching, muscle-straining, nerve-racking quiet of pure tension. 

This limo was provided personally by the President. Matter of fact, so was I. Provided for the sole purpose of safeguarding the security and comfort of the woman seated across from me - the most cherished woman in the White House, after the First Lady herself. 

Well, right now the comfort issue is very much in question. 

"Flamingo" hasn't said a thing since she got in. "Groucho" has said two words, to me: "Let's go." I've said one, to our driver: "Home." 

It's been exactly one week since I accepted this detail. I've watched CJ leave her apartment in the morning. I've watched her leave "Crown" at night. 

And for the past three days, I've watched her leave the courthouse during the trial of her abductor. 

I've gotten to know her surprisingly well in this week, even though we haven't really spent that much time together. In fact, we've said very little to each other. The vast majority of my time has been spent either sitting outside her office or staying up all night across the hall from her unit. She's made no effort to open up and speak to me about the things that are obviously bothering her, even though she knows I'm prepared to listen. Still, you can learn a lot through sheer observation. 

I'm more than a little worried about her. The vitality, the concentration of professionalism, humor and energy that everyone saw in her before the kidnapping, is gone. I honestly don't think she's smiled once since I started with her. I'm sure she's worse now than when she first returned home last Sunday. I'll lay odds that she's not sleeping much, and she can't be _eating_ much; she's pale and nervous and listless altogether. 

I remember when "Hallmark" dabbled in anorexia... 

I blame the trial. It should still be months away, when CJ would be a lot closer to wholeness, rather than a short five days after she was rescued from the maniac's clutches. For sure it's created an almost unendurable stress on top of everything else. 

I haven't been inside "Crown" much this week; I merely drop her off in the morning and pick her up when she calls me. I can't tell if the rest of the staff is sharing this anxiety. 

If "Groucho" is any gauge, though, I know they are. 

From the strain on his face right now, today's testimony was the hardest yet. 

I hope to God she can handle it. She doesn't seem to want, or dare, to let anyone in. Not me, not Toby... not one of the people who care for her so much. 

We're here. I hang back and let them go ahead. She's not leaning on him, exactly, but I can read his desire to help her in big neon letters. The strange thing is, she doesn't even seem to notice that herself. 

She's just... _existing_. As if life were nothing more than a harsh ordeal to be endured, as if it can't possibly be enjoyable anymore. 

I pause in the hall outside her apartment door. Let them have some time alone. If she'd open up to _him_... sooner or later she's going to have to talk to _someone_. I don't care whom, so long as she does. Pain trapped inside is a slow poison. 

Oops; he's leaving already. I didn't hear them exchange one word. Not a good sign. Whatever occurred in court today, it drove her even deeper inside herself. 

What can possibly draw her out? A clear legal victory might... but it's not going to happen. Her assailant is insane; she won't get the satisfaction of a life sentence - or a _death_ sentence. She'll have to be content with seeing him receive psychiatric treatment... which just might let him back out someday in the future. 

For one instant I'm sorely tempted to stop "Groucho" and ask him for details. But I know he's going straight back to "Crown" and reporting to "Eagle" in person. If his story raises even greater concern, "Eagle" will tell Butterfield, and Butterfield will tell me. I won't step beyond my established boundaries. Not yet. 

Those boundaries do insist that I enter and make sure "Flamingo" is all right. 

"CJ?" 

She's coming out of the bathroom. Her face has that fresh-scrubbed look, as though she's just splashed water on it. In an attempt to hide tears? 

It doesn't hide her total lack of healthy color. 

"Coffee?" 

"Thanks; I'd like that." I'd like it even better if she didn't stick to these one-word sentences. If I hang around awhile and just visit, maybe her diamond guard will come down a bit. 

If _only_ she'd accept the care Toby wants so much to give her! If it isn't quite romantic love between them, it's the truest friendship. Man, if I were going through this horror, I can only pray that Brian would be there for me. 

Yeah, I think he would be. I just hope I'd be able to get past myself and _let_ him be there. 

It's possible that CJ feels even more defensive around Toby in particular. He's an old friend, he's a colleague, and he's a man. I'm just a bodyguard, quite aside from being female, and we don't have a history ourselves. This makes me less of a threat all round. 

Conversely, I wonder if maybe I'm not that much of a help to her now after all. She can't believe that everyone's afraid of another lunatic coming after her. And I haven't got the impression that she finds my presence very reassuring. I wonder if, instead, I'm a constant reminder that others see her as "damaged" or "delicate," or no longer self-sufficient. If so, this detail can do her more harm than good. 

Would a less overt security measure help her recapture her independence and self-reliance, yet still provide the comfort that everyone needs - her as well? 

Another point: CJ might be worried that part of my job is to report back on the least sign of abnormal behavior. She probably doesn't know that Toby's doing that already. 

Actually, I'm tempted to call "Regina" tonight. She's the doctor on this case. It'd be a bit of a violation of my job, but this could be seen as important enough. If the First Lady is subtle in her approach, and I know she can be, maybe "Flamingo" won't figure out my role in - 

**// KEE-RASH //**

_ALERT._ Something shattered. Not glass - too heavy-sounding. Pottery? 

I leap up at once. It came from the kitchen. 

_What could happen to her here?_

Maybe I'm overreacting. But far better that than _failing_ to react. 

Ceramic shards on the floor - 

Drifts of white powder - 

_CJ lifting a chair over her head -_

Blackness. 


	11. I, Lifesaver 11

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 11 ~ 

December 2000 

Christmas in the White House. I defy anyone in the New World to do it better. After all, their decoration budget for this month is probably two or three times a Secret Service agent's salary. 

Come on; how many people can afford live band music right in their homes - or even have the space for it? 

To be honest, I find the sheer dazzle of the State Rooms a bit overwhelming. The East Wing is far subtler... and the West Wing has almost nothing at all. I suppose someone would argue that the _real_ work is done here and there should be fewer distractions. 

Whether the real work _is_ done here or not, none can deny that work is proceeding steadily. From the atmosphere, you'd never guess that the Main Floor and the Residence each have their own towering Christmas tree, or that a brass quintet is belting out "Joy to the World" less than a hundred yards away. The nation doesn't stop even for the biggest annual holiday, so the government shouldn't stop either. 

Still, government employees deserve _some_ time off, giving us our own version of the Christmas rush: trying to lock down as many legislative problems as possible so that they can't be tampered with before everyone returns in the New Year. I'm presuming that's why "Regina" made a formal request to see "Eagle" today. 

Either that... or else it's something personal and _serious_ , to encroach upon standard business hours. 

Let's not think about that. This year has seen more than our fair share of crises, thank you. 

I really do like escorting her here. Sure, it means I have to wait outside, feeling just a bit extraneous with the other guys on "Eagle" detail never far off. Still, all pride aside, here is where the action is. I often glimpse some very familiar faces from the upper echelons of federal politics, and international celebrities as well. I don't mind waiting, and watching, until whenever it is that I'm needed again. 

I can't see "Batman's" desk from here, but any bodyguard can sympathize with him a bit. At least he has other concrete tasks to concentrate on between "body man" chores. Not that "Eagle" doesn't keep him hopping pretty much all day. 

I wonder why "Regina" is here? I have no idea, and usually I can pick up a clue or two in advance. Well, it's no business of - 

"I'm telling you, something's wrong." 

Ah, here comes "Princeton." Yet another perk to standing around in this Wing is observing the close advisors to the President, unnoticed. It can be high entertainment at times. 

"Don't overreact." 

That's "Groucho." I do hope "Flamingo" is not with them. Ever since I left the hospital I've been deliberately avoiding her. I don't want to create any unpleasant mental associations. She's got enough healing still to do without the mere sight of me making it worse. 

Nope; it's just the two of them, walking along and bickering as usual. 

"I'm not. Something's really bothering him." 

Who are they talking about? Of course it has nothing to do with me... 

"You're reading too much into this, Sam." 

Both of them totally ignore me, and the other human statues they've already passed in the hall. Like we don't even exist. I'd be insulted, except that it's best for our job. We make a point of ignoring them right back. 

" _Someone_ has to. We can't just let it ride." 

"Sure we can. It's nothing serious." 

"He needs our help!" Oh, "Princeton" is really gung-ho on this subject, whatever it is. 

I think "Groucho" has reached the same conclusion; he's finally stopped. Looks like I have a ringside seat to this discussion. Not that I'm actually listening in, mind you... 

"Just because Josh has decided that he's some kind of posthumous blood brother to this suicidal jet pilot? What do you want from me?" 

Whoa; what's wrong with "Harvard?" 

Hey, eyes front. This isn't _my_ discussion. 

"I want all of us to pay him a bit more attention!" 

"I have someone else to look after right now." Of course, "Groucho" is preoccupied with "Flamingo" these days. She's making good progress, I hear, but it's still slow. 

"Fine, I'll do it myself." I have to admit, "Princeton" sounds pretty worried to me. I wonder what - 

No, I am _not_ wondering. Nothing of the kind. I'm just part of the furniture. 

Uh-oh; here comes "Dexter." Either he's going to send both of these guys packing, or else he's going to wish he'd chosen a less direct route to his office. 

"Leo!" Man, "Princeton" is right on him. He really _is_ worried. 

"Yeah?" It never ceases to amaze me how these people can read a report and negotiate a busy hallway at the same time. Their boss doesn't even look up. 

"It's Josh." 

Okay, that definitely got his attention. 

Don't look at them. They should feel perfectly safe to talk about state matters or _personal_ matters around us. We're not called the _Secret_ Service for nothing. 

"What's he done this time?" Oh, I like how that's the first thing "Dexter" expects: some kind of screw-up. Way to boost a person's self-worth. 

"He's not quite himself. He's been going on about that downed pilot, and the music in the foyer... he's snapping at Donna..." 

At Donna? Okay, that goes beyond uncharacteristic. 

I'm being careful to study the opposite wall, but from the sudden silence to my left I'd bet that "Dexter" agrees. 

"How long has this been going on?" 

"I'm... not sure. It's just - lately I've started to really notice it. Just little things." 

Well, these two _are_ best friends. If anyone can tell that something's not quite right... but what might it be? Is "Harvard" ill? 

Now that is a depressed sigh. "All right. Leave it with me." 

"Leo, the President should know about it." 

"No." Huh; _that_ was a strangely flat refusal. 

"Leo... he's gotta be in the loop." 

" _No_ , Sam. I'll handle it." 

"If something's really wrong -" 

"I am not going to talk to him about _this_." Even I know not to question _that_ tone. 

_"Why not?"_ Okay, that is anger. "Dexter" must have a good reason not to approach "Eagle" right now, although I've got no idea what it is. But it sounds like "Princeton" is finding this pretty unfeeling on the part of either the Chief of Staff or the President himself... 

"Because _he_ was shot, too." 

Wow; I completely forgot "Groucho" was here. But no one can make a quiet, level, insightful statement like he can that just stops you in your tracks. 

Wait a minute; what does this have to do with Rosslyn? That was half a year ago... 

Dead silence. Oh, man, I think I'm getting the picture. Both "Dexter" and "Groucho" have military experience. They've seen shell shock before. Maybe they suspect that "Harvard" is suffering some kind of psychological relapse. 

He _seemed_ to heal fine... 

And he wasn't the _only_ one hit that night... 

God in heaven - maybe "Eagle" is _also_ not handling his own memories as well as everyone thinks he is... 

Sam is Josh's best friend; naturally he'd notice aberrations of personality first. 

Leo is the President's best friend... does he have something similar in mind? 

Is that the real reason "Regina" is in the Oval right now? 

Okay, everyone in this hall, including us human gargoyles, now has got a whole new slew of suspicions to face. 

How can "Eagle" _not_ have felt fear that night... so how can he not feel it now? His job is a veritable magnet for violence. 

There's been no sign at all of presidential stress or trauma; no way could that have been hidden. Which is great, but how does he deal with it? His faith must play a large part. Still, the mind is almost impossible to reason with at times. 

If "Harvard" is going through an emotional upheaval, how can "Eagle" not as well? Both of them came very close to dying on the spot. And even though our Chief Executive's injury was less severe, and his healing less painful, there's a far greater likelihood of him being shot at _again_ some day. _Everyone_ knows that. 

What might happen to The Man's sanity if another attack should ever occur? Would it trigger something within him that we can't predict? He seemed so strong from the first, so much a leader, but still... 

How much guilt does he feel for Josh almost getting killed because of _his_ position? 

"Eagle" was essentially forced to get himself in hand and get his life back to normal _at once_. For the sake of the entire nation, he could not do otherwise. But he must have felt terror and anxiety as well, even though no one's seen any clue of it... 

Is it possible that the sheer pressure of his office, while it drove him to a fast recovery, has also created an inner crack in what _looks_ like stable health, physical and mental? 

Is Josh a ticking time bomb? 

Is the _President?_

* * *

January 2001

Jamaica in January. Sun, surf, summer heat, peace and quiet. A dream vacation. 

Remind me tomorrow. I'm just off a killer shift. Right now I want _only_ the dreams. 

I close my hotel door, ignore the light switch, and collapse into the armchair. The only reason I didn't go for the bed at once is because it's a whole four steps further away. 

A lot of people would think this is great: getting away to a tropical haven in the dead of a DC winter. They have _no_ conception of what security goes through on foreign trips. I seriously doubt I'll get any free time at all to really enjoy the magnificent scenery. In fact, if I even get a chance to hit the pool I'll be surprised. We'll be on our way home again and I'll have totally missed out on this slice of paradise while it was in reach. With both "Regina" _and_ "Eagle" playing the international field this time, leisure is not an option. 

Neither, it would seem, is sleep. 

Okay, I'm being selfish. Of course _they_ won't get to stroll the pristine beaches and take a casual dip in the ocean, either. The governmental brass, the conferences, and the countless performances by marching bands and schoolchildren take precedence over even the First Couple of the United States having their own holiday. 

Just so long as we get them back on the plane safely, I'll gladly yield up this much-longed-for opportunity to frolic in the sun. Besides, Brian isn't here. 

It is _exhausting_ to chase after a President. To be frank, that's what we're _all_ doing, "Regina" detail notwithstanding. I have no trouble with the idea of spending the night right here in this chair. I don't care about clothes or air conditioning or the weapon jammed against my left kidney. I only care about sleep... 

Phone. Damn - and just as I was dropping off. 

I took my earpiece out the second I left my post. I'm entitled to my _sleep_. 

Still ringing. I shouldn't answer it. 

I will. We're never totally off duty. "Agent Reilly." 

"Juliet HQ here. We have a situation developing." 

Surprise. "And I just came off a sixteen-hour shift." I'm too tired to be diplomatic, though not too tired to be attentive. There's no sense of real urgency, which is always a terrific sign. Still, I can't be the _only_ agent not currently post-standing -! 

_"Local contacts have picked up some disturbing rumors about a possible planned attack on Eagle."_ I like how our local HQ acknowledges the full day I've already put in. 

Okay, focus. Rumors of a presidential assault. No way can we brush it off; that's not how you protect a Head of State. The Service always taps into the local police force of any city we visit; it's vital that all such whispers get through to us. 

All right, now I'm worried - and about more than myself. "Seriously, I'm wiped. You might not want to trust my judgment just now." If I make one mistake, because I'm tired or for any _other_ reason, what backlash might it have on the regional informant network... the Jamaican authorities... the state visit's image... diplomatic relations... the safety of the First Couple? 

"We need you to infiltrate the conspirators ASAP." 

Blast - this is what happens when you're _too_ good at your job. Just because I have a string of counterfeit busts to my credit... 

We all work damned hard, and we can't _keep_ working damned hard if we're sleep-deprived. But this is vital. It'll save us a lot of effort, and anxiety, and _danger_ , if we can nail a genuine conspiracy at its core. 

If it's _not_ genuine... well, it doesn't matter. We have to respond to every one of the ninety-nine false alarms out there, to make absolutely sure we don't miss the one real crisis. 

But if it _is_ a false alarm, I won't be in the mood to take it philosophically. 

"All right. Give me a few minutes for a shower and a coffee?" Don't whine, girl. It's a perfectly valid request. You have to be able to concentrate, after all. 

"Affirmative. Bourque will pick you up. He has all the details." 

"You guys know me too well," I mutter as I hang up. 

Todd fills me in on the drive over. "Some snitch for the local police force overheard these guys talking in a bar earlier this evening. It flew up the chain of command pretty fast." 

"I'll bet. With the American President in town? If anything happens, Jamaica will never live it down - even if _he does_." I'm almost leaning out my car window. The rushing air helps clear my head. 

"They want you to get close enough to tape their convo. How about the drunk tourist act?" 

Good; the gears are grinding along. "That'll work. We can stage a public lovers' spat. But we'd better do it soon; they must've been here for hours already." 

"Agreed. If they leave too soon, others will be following." 

"Betcha I won't be that lucky." Reluctantly, I pull out my pistol, holster and all. If our role goes off, I can't take a chance of getting caught with it in a huddle. "Here." 

He nods in sympathy and pockets it for me. I can rest assured that _he's_ very well armed, as well as all of our invisible backup. Still... 

We swagger into this local interpretation of an English pub, arm in arm, exactly like two American vacationers out for a night on the town. A burst of loud, drunken laughter right off, to draw the patrons' attention and establish our identities. Then Todd starts ordering drinks. Since neither of us has had a drop yet today, of course, we can knock them back fast and safely. The number of glasses blooms in a hurry. 

I've already ID'd our suspects; another agent is buried somewhere in a corner, keeping them under surveillance and whispering information to us ever since we arrived. There are five, gathered around a back table and doing a good impression of talking about nonessentials. 

Maybe they _are_ talking nonessentials. And I could be in bed right now... 

Hey - no jumping to conclusions. We can't afford to underestimate _anyone_. 

_Is this a real situation?_ It's my task to find out. 

They're not quite out of earshot; it's so late that the regular barflies are dissipating. Todd knows Spanish better than I do, but a cadre of assassins would have to be either stupid or _very_ self-assured to do their plotting in a bar. Certainly no semi-intelligent assassin meets in a public place and then discusses plans in the most common lingo around. No, they're using French - which is what tipped off our informer at the start. It's unusual to hear it spoken in such a setting, and by men who are obviously natives to boot. 

More encouragement to us that this isn't a wild-goose chase. Good news _and_ bad. Good that I won't have wasted my night; bad that someone around here is determined to assault the President of the United States. 

_Very_ good that we heard about it and are in a position now to stop it cold. 

My French is passable; I'll be able to tell when we've got the evidence we need. That is, if I can get close enough to pick up the actual sentences. 

I'm wearing my "Leanne" glasses, and we chose our seats so that I'm facing their way. I've got to time this closely. The next time one of them heads for the bar... 

Now. 

I slam both hands on the table, making all those glasses rattle. "You pig!" My voice carries shrilly through the entire bar. Heads turn. Todd jerks back in his chair at this scathing accusation. "Is that what you've _really_ had in mind? Get out of my sight!" 

I rise unsteadily, throw my date a furious glare, and then stagger towards the bar. I don't dare glance back, but without doubt Todd is pretending to look totally embarrassed, and then to drown his sorrows and hope that, if he hangs around long enough, his girl will change her mind and give him another chance. 

I stumble up against the rail just as one of our targets is placing his own order. "Gimme the strongest thing you got," I slur to the bartender. Some knowledge of English is essential for businesses in almost any capital city these days. I try not to act smug over that fact. 

From the corner of my eye, I'm watching my mark. He's definitely watching _me_. 

"Better yet... gimme a baseball bat." If _he_ does understand English as well, this will go a whole lot easier... 

"No, you no want to do that, miss," a Spanish accent advises from my right. 

_Bingo._ I turn slowly. I've managed to get enough alcohol on my breath by now that he can smell it. A further point in my favor in his eyes. "What?" 

He tries to look considerate. It still comes across as a leer. "That man is obviously not worth it." Oh, love the implication. "Here, _I_ will pay for your drink." 

"Who... are you?" Lots of subtext to _my_ words, too, although I know he won't hear it. 

"I am what you ordered: the strongest one here." For a pick-up line, I've definitely heard worse. "Let me give you the sanctuary you deserve." 

He's not too unpleasant to the eye, and he's cultivated the bandito look that some find appealing, but no woman in her right mind would be taken in this easily. However, a drunk American in a strange place, and in a rage at her date... he must figure that he's got nothing to lose. Then too, his companions are all men. If he can pick up a broad this easily, he'll be the envy of the table. 

And if he _is_ plotting mayhem, how much of a threat can this woman possibly be? 

While I appear to hazily mull this over, he adds my fresh drink to his tray, and then offers a supportive arm. "Come. I will protect you from him." 

I wonder if anyone else here has the decency to wonder who's gonna protect me from my _new_ date. 

Of course he never mentions his name, or asks me for mine. What arrogance. He must be figuring on a very quick score. Men... 

Two of his pals aren't thrilled with this unknown addition to their panel of discussion. The other two are openly jealous of his success. He doesn't introduce me; that'd be too much to hope for. He just wraps a possessive arm around my waist. "You rest, miss. You're safe." 

I _wouldn't_ be safe if I hadn't removed my belt holster; he'd have felt it that time. Whew. I just sit quietly and keep nodding stupidly, looking around this group in open interest. And memorizing their faces while I'm at it. 

Now they're trading a quick flurry of French about how much of a risk I might be to their planning session. If they're _that_ worried, then I really have stepped into a snake pit of illegal intent. 

I've had to act in nefarious company too often to forget how. Still, I firmly remind myself not to slip. It's a foregone conclusion that these guys are armed to the teeth. They wouldn't hesitate to shoot me in my seat if they so much as suspected - 

"Et puis, quand the presidente est mort..." 

Whoops; a lot of words haven't changed much at all across the entire Romance language family. I can't pretend that I don't understand _that_ one. It's almost certainly a test. They're not so dimwitted after all. 

Slowly, now... "Huh? President?" 

"Nothing, miss." My new friend tightens his arm reassuringly. "We are talking about _our_ President, not yours." 

Oh, _sure_ you are. I choke down a huge desire to snort. How dumb do they think American women are? But then, I'm obviously so blitzed that I'll believe almost anything I hear. All five relax perceptively, and get back to business. 

Meanwhile, I sit here silently, sipping from my free drink with the half-interest of someone barely able to stay awake, my eyes most of the time on the scarred tabletop, my face bland... my ears pricked. My radio locked on. I cranked up its sensitivity earlier, and a voice in my ear assures me that the other end is getting every word. 

Uh-oh - I'm starting to feel just a bit dizzy. Even someone stone cold sober, and fortified by two coffees immediately before, will feel the effects of three fast drinks at some point - especially when tired. This had better go down soon, or else I'll have to bail. Impaired reflexes would be a danger, to me and to everyone else around as well. 

Unfortunately, these self-styled guerrillas do seem to know what they're doing. Thank God for the informer, and for the Service taking no chances. They're not just one more fringe element foolishly lobbing grenades at an impregnable limousine. They're planning to charge the blocked-off roads with full-sized dump trucks and ram the motorcade at high speed. They've arranged this carefully and over considerable time; the trucks have been armored as well, and the truck drivers have at least an even chance of surviving _and_ fleeing the scene if the element of surprise is high enough. 

The ratio of _success_ is far higher than I'd like. A truck that size and that heavy can roll over just about anything in its path if it's really moving. 

"Eagle" and "Regina," cruising along in comfort and enjoying the sights, chatting together about this pleasant trip - huge trucks suddenly bearing down on them - one terror-stricken look out the car window - impact - 

There's a limit to what even "Stagecoach" can handle. They wouldn't stand a chance. 

I can't prevent a shudder, so I turn it into a shiver and pretend to seek solace from my drink. The quiet French discussion around me never pauses. Whew... 

This is not a false rumor. This is not a case of some drunks mouthing off in a bar that they don't like a public figure, or that they wish they had the guts to go out in a blaze of glory. This is a deliberate assault. They're serious. They want to kill the Bartlets. _Both_ of them. 

I will not permit that vision to become reality... 

Oh - here's the best part of all. This quintet has nothing at all against the United States, or even its current leader. What they want to do is bring down the _Jamaican_ government, by proving that said government is too incompetent to protect other world leaders on a simple visit. They want a war - not so much with America as with themselves. And for a bunch of cold-blooded opportunists, civil upheaval is rife with opportunities. 

In such context, the President of the smallest island in the Philippines would serve their delightful purpose every bit as well. 

Okay, now I'm angry _and_ insulted. 

The best (and hardest) way to foil an assassin is to nail him before the attempt. Before the gun is fired, before the explosive is launched, before someone _has_ to get hurt. Thank God we have the chance to destroy this particular cancer when it can do any damage. 

A whisper in my ear: _"We are go."_ Excellent; we've got enough information and enough of a confession to stand up in court. Time to roll. The backup team isn't going to just invade - we don't want a firefight in an enclosed space, especially with innocent bystanders around. But the moment these soldiers of fortune step outside... 

I'm _quite_ happy with the thought of removing myself from this dubious company, thanks. 

"Listen... uh..." I start to push myself up, gathering their attention at once. "I gotta go... you know..." I make vague motions with both hands, then almost fall over. 

The men trade grins. My personal friend rises as well. "Of course, miss. Allow me to assist you. We're done here, anyway." He puts his thick arm right around me. 

Oh, sure, I _want_ his assistance in the ladies' room! No words needed to know what he's really got in mind. 

Yes, the rest of the party is breaking up too. Good; that means I'll still be present to enjoy this. Everyone else heads for the front door while we two wander towards the back. 

Oh, _man_ \- we're barely out of sight, and already his hands are starting to wander. The things I endure for my country... But there's a final line of no trespass, and this slob has no idea how close he is to it. Oh, I'm gonna love breaking the news to him. And I mean _breaking._

"Ready to move in." 

That's my cue. I stumble and almost land on all fours. My bandito makes a big production of helping me stand again, unaware that my hands are going to my pant cuff... 

Gunfire erupts, right outside. No one has to tell me what's happening. One side was surprised... the other, not. And no one wins a fight with _us._

The bad guys always like to try, though. My escort whirls at once - but the revolver from my ankle holster is already jabbing straight into his diaphragm. 

Now I've got a _real_ smile for him. "Forget it, mate. You're sitting this one out." 

_Love_ that look of total bafflement. This was the best part about working directly for Treasury: this experience of sheer, personal triumph. 

"Colleen Reilly. United States Secret Service. At _your_ service." That should warn him not to pull anything. I won't vouch for my self-control with a trigger right now, anyway. After all, I've had a lot to drink tonight. 

I can't resist rubbing it in a bit more. "Oh, and for future reference... Jamaica doesn't _have_ a President. It has a Prime Minister. And a Queen." 

Ah, here comes the cavalry. I let them take custody of my gaping prisoner. He's too stunned by my absolutely unexpected turnaround to come up with any thought of resistance while he's frisked and cuffed. 

The team leader gives me a grateful nod. "Good work. They're all accounted for." 

"My pleasure." Once again, the President is safe. Of course, the public almost certainly won't hear a breath about this, so we won't get the credit due... but it's probably just as well. We don't want to give anyone else ideas. Plus, we already have our reward. We've foiled a deadly little plan, the police will be able to trace the rest of this ring, and everyone can sleep better. 

Speaking of which... "Say, could you have someone drive Todd and me to the hotel, please? I don't think I'd be safe behind the wheel." My head is starting to ache. 

"Oh, and tell my boss that I want tomorrow morning off." 


	12. I, Lifesaver 12

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 12 ~ 

February 2001 

Valentine's Day. Perfect date for a wedding, don't you think? 

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present Mr. and Mrs. Brian Lebreton." 

Okay, I'll still use my maiden name on the job, for simplicity... but from now on -! 

The room is awash with red and white. The reception is small; only some fifty places total. Neither of us have big families, and we were quite happy to keep things simple. I feel sorry for those who face colossal organizing and huge price tags. How can that contribute to the beauty of the occasion? 

Good thing not every bride thinks the same way I do, or else a lot of wedding services would go bankrupt. 

A few of my closer colleagues from the Service are present, but strictly off-duty. I didn't go so far as to ask that they leave their weapons behind, though. Still, the Lord forfend that any emergency should occur today of all days. Just twelve hours' peace, that's all I ask... 

Another couple I'm delighted to see is "Flamingo" and "Groucho." (All right, girl, you can drop the code names for _one_ night, can't you?) I'm just so happy to see them together outside of work. The past two months have been very healing for her, thanks most of all to his efforts. If they're not officially an item by now, I suspect it won't be much longer. 

I've lost count of the number of times CJ has apologized for the chair incident. I hope inviting her here today will convince her once and for all that I hold no grudges for stress flashbacks. They're seated at a table near the front: a table set for six, but otherwise empty. As per my instructions. 

I feel like I've been gliding through this day in a happy dream. The service was so moving... and here we are already, our first official appearance as husband and wife. I hope the photographer is taking lots of pictures; I'm not sure how much I'll really remember. 

There was a reason we asked our best man and maid of honor to give their obligatory speeches before supper rather than after. Just as Bob's sitting back down, having teased both of us relentlessly to gales of laughter, one of my friends at the back table leaps up. I placed him there on purpose. Now he's coming forward through the center of the room at a firm pace. No one can miss seeing him. All part of the plan. 

Brian's wearing his Cheshire grin, and I just tingle all over in sheer anticipation as Andy comes right up behind the head table and whispers his message to me. Exactly as he would have done to "Eagle" himself. For once, I feel so important. _Me._

The room is dead silent. Whether the other guests clue in to this symbolism or not, everyone knows something unusual is about to happen. I can feel the surprised curiosity radiating from Rita on my right. 

Once Andy has stepped away again, Brian and I rise together. I sneak a glance at CJ and Toby; they look as confused as everyone else. 

"Friends, you're probably expecting this, but I'm going to say it just the same: we'll never be able to thank you enough for sharing this day with us." Bri stops and waits for the standard round of applause. 

My turn. "This is so weird; I am not used to being the center of attention." Everyone here knows my career. "And before anyone asks - for once, I'm not armed." My dress may be fairly simplistic, but it's still floor-length and has several layers; any holster would be well-hidden, yet nearly impossible to get at in a hurry. Never mind the _point_. Imagine, a bride who feels the need to carry a gun on her wedding day! "However, I can't speak for others present." 

This time I'm not the one on protection. In a way, for tonight I'm the one _under_ protection. 

Now that feels _really_ strange. 

We allow the chuckles to subside (some sounding just a bit nervous at the implication that several guests most likely _are_ packing), then Brian continues. "Now... Colleen and I have a surprise for you all. And a secret." 

By this stage it must be apparent to our captive audience that not even sister Rita and brother Bob are in on the latest twist. Most people lean a bit closer to their tables, attention riveted and fearing to miss a word. Others lean back in their chairs, confident that they've already guessed. _Are we pregnant?_

I answer that unspoken question by ignoring it. "We kept this secret for three reasons. First, we really did want our wedding to be small and intimate. Second, bodyguards are not supposed to attract attention, and I don't want to learn bad habits." 

Here I simply have to pause, to savor the suspense. 

"And third..." 

With perfect timing, the back doors to the reception room swing open - and a truly unique Couple calmly enters, arm in arm. 

_How_ I wish I could preserve this moment in amber for all time! 

After the first heartbeat of absolute silence and total shock, everyone else rises. In what I'd describe as a numb disbelief. "Hail to the Chief" is playing in my head, quite possibly others' as well. If the DJ hadn't been as floored as everyone else... 

I hear the whispered, "Oh, my _God..._ " from Rita, and the slightly louder "Hell -!" from Bob. Brian's hold on my arm tightens; we trade a glance of pure triumph. This is an incredible honor for anyone's wedding, let along a mere Secret Service agent. 

The President and the First Lady are enjoying these stunned expressions as well. They walk the length of the room towards us, passing between the two groups of tables, nodding graciously left and right, trying to be casual about it. Both take special note of CJ and Toby, who look only slightly less amazed. I am _so_ glad we were able to surprise them, too. 

"Colleen! Brian! Congratulations!" "Regina" grasps my hand in both of hers, then reaches over to give Bri the same treatment. "We're so pleased to be here." 

"Not as pleased as we are to have you, ma'am." It took several visits to my place of work, and a lot of encouragement, but Brian's somewhat more at ease with them now than he used to be. I most definitely did not want _him_ to feel uncomfortable today. 

"You may lose that bet, son." "Eagle" takes his turn to shake our hands as well, his famous grin beaming away. "It's a real treat for us to go anywhere incognito these days." Mostly because it's close to impossible. But when the Secret Service is _really_ determined... 

I'm grinning, too. "We're glad to help, sir. We really can't afford to feed that many press members, anyway." 

" _I_ can't afford to feed that many!" the President counters, and the whole room bursts into laughter. 

The First Lady's next comment rises over the amusement, intended for all ears. "Thanks for inviting us. And don't pay us any special mind. This is _your_ event." 

"We'll do our best," Brian assures them, in a tone that says he's not responsible for others' actions. "Thanks so much for coming!" 

"Wouldn't miss it." "Eagle" sounds so sincere that I choke up. Who knows how many others in this room do as well? Then he steps back and allows his wife to precede him to their intended place: the nearby table with four vacant seats and two very familiar faces. They extend greetings there as well, as though nothing could possibly be out of the ordinary. 

CJ and Toby sit down as soon as the Bartlets do, and I can see her lean closer to quietly accuse "Regina" of holding out on them. No doubt Toby has a similar message for The Man. 

Somehow I can't just abandon _those_ code names here. They've become almost as formal and courteous to me as the official titles are. 

It also feels odd to remember that - even though the First Lady is here, and _I'm_ here - for this night, she's not _my_ responsibility. 

Everyone else resumes their seats as well, including us. I'm sure there's no further doubt in _any_ mind present that every agent here (except me) is definitely armed: not just the new arrivals that have taken up precautionary stances against the walls, but my personal friends as well. I'd never hide this magnitude of a stunt from _them_ , off-duty or no - and the First Couple's safety during this private appointment is absolutely paramount. 

"I can't believe you two kept this bombshell from _us_ as well!" Rita blasts my ear in a furious whisper. I can just imagine what Bob has to say about it to Brian. 

"Can you envision the media circus if this had gotten out?" I whisper back, much more calmly. "That would've made it an ordeal for them _and_ us. Besides, the look on your face was priceless." I think I may be enjoying our victory way too much. 

Now where is that photographer? Ah, there! I catch his eye and wave him over before he can close in on the nation's leading celebrities. 

"Gilles, please don't take too many pictures of the First Couple, okay? They're surrounded by cameras every other day of their lives. Let's give them a break. Besides, I don't want anyone else here to feel left out." 

He nods, more than a little reluctantly. After all, this is a photographer's dream come true. But at least I left him some leeway. He'll still manage a few close shots, and they can only help his career - so long as he doesn't forget _us_. 

Okay, Bri and I have lost some of the spotlight, and at our own wedding reception, too... but it's worth it. The Bartlets get a night off, our guests get a huge thrill, and we two can claim an amazing guest list. And they're _all_ our friends! 

Now that everyone's finally present, we can proceed with supper. The head server approaches Brian with considerable trepidation, and I let him assure her that she and her staff are to act normally. All we need is a panicky waiter spilling the soup. 

Even after my instructions, I hope Gilles caught the dazed expressions of the pair who just brought their trays to that particular table. 

I'm not one to dawdle over meals much, but this time I'll gladly make an exception. Once the main course is done, an agent on duty invites two guests to the executive table every ten minutes or so, starting with the parents of the groom. Few people indeed would presume to approach the President on their own initiative, especially when they hadn't known about this golden opportunity in advance. But Brian and I want all our friends to have a chance to speak personally with our _very_ special guests, rather than stare wistfully from across the room. That's why we kept two extra chairs free there. "Eagle" and "Regina" had offered in advance to do this for us. Both are experts at pleasant conversation and at calming nerves. Meanwhile, CJ and Toby are on hand to help ease any halting discussion. 

I'm watching this process, and loving every minute of it, when something makes me look up. Another agent has arrived, and is approaching me. 

Okay, _this_ one I didn't arrange. Don't tell me something's happened after all! 

He hands me - an envelope, and a handsomely wrapped gift box. 

_Whew._ I'm sure I'm not the only one present who relaxes. 

"Mrs. Hoynes asked me to deliver this, with her personal best wishes." He says it loudly enough to be heard over the background chatter... and, no doubt as the sender had hoped, the chatter drops off at once. 

My first reaction is humility. Considering "Hallmark's" reticence, this is a real honor. And after a year and a half she remembers me so fondly! 

My second reaction is embarrassment. If not for a certain Couple's presence, this would have been the crowning glory to the evening - which she must have intended all along. 

I can feel every eye in the room resting upon me, sharing the same thought. 

As vain as Carolina Hoynes might sound, I wouldn't wound her with the knowledge that her little effort had been _in_ vain. Let her believe that she succeeded. I owe her that much. 

"Please convey our deepest thanks to Mrs. Hoynes. It was extremely kind of her to think about me." Then, more quietly, "And not a word to her about the First Couple being here, got it?" 

He nods, all business, and departs. 

My next reaction, as I open the card, is amusement. I show it to Brian, and he too lights up with a grin. It is not, of course, a Hallmark. That lady won't share the spotlight with anyone if she can help it - not even a manufacturer's label. 

A brisk clinking of silver against glass draws me back. Bob is leading the request that Brian and I demonstrate our new status physically. This is a rather small gathering, so we'd decided to dispense with fancier ways of requesting a kiss. Keep it simple, sucker. 

Let me say for the record that Bri and I are more than happy to comply. 

I'm going through a flood of memories right now. When Brian first asked me out early last year, after we met at a mutual friend's Christmas party. 

When Brian proposed last fall. He said at the time that he hadn't needed ten months to make up his mind; he'd needed all of ten days. A good thing he didn't mention that on our first date... it would have been a case of him frightening _me_. Not that I needed to think about it much before accepting. Maybe there is an argument for love at first sight after all. 

When "Regina" asked me the next day why I was in such a good mood. I couldn't get over how delighted she was when I told her. 

When Brian first picked me up at work, giving me a chance to introduce him to my slightly famous protectee. He then had to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

When "Regina" asked if she and her husband could come to our wedding. To say I was staggered would be a pitiful understatement. Even though she insisted that they just happened to have a convenient gap in their calendars, I still wonder a bit... besides some long-overdue R &R for them, I can think of at least one other reason why they'd want to be here. 

Glasses clink again. Time for an instant replay. Not that I mind the excuse to pull this hunk closer, mind you. 

I am so blessed. He's terrific beyond words. I could just stay here forever, soaking up the sight of him, surrounded by our closest friends... 

And our leaders, of course. Incredible how I can forget about them for _any_ period of time. But then, I'm fairly used to being around them by now. 

If only Brian and I can know the kind of marriage they have... 

Oh, boy - if I eat even _half_ my dessert, I won't need years to grow out of my dress: I'll do it _tonight._ Gotta love chocolate. 

_More_ clinking! That must be our best man's third time. Brian waves me down and stands alone. Looks like he's taking steps. Of course, big brothers know how to handle _little_ brothers like no one else. 

"All right, Bob; I'm sure I'll never tire of kissing Colleen, _ever_. But I _am_ tired of jumping up every two minutes at _your_ behest. If you don't lay off and give others a chance, then I'm going to involve the First Couple next time." 

Of course, everyone would _love_ to see that - but no one here would dare risk it. Brian's pretty much guaranteed that Bob won't put fork to glass again tonight. 

Unfortunately, he's guaranteed something else as well: something he's not expecting in the least. Too late to warn him; I just shake my head. So does CJ. So does Toby. And so does "Regina." We four know our Chief Executive well enough to predict exactly what's coming next. 

Sure enough, "Eagle" brightens at once. "Oh, well, in _that_ case!" 

Very deliberately, he obtains his own knife and taps briskly against his own glass. Then, without waiting for the echo to dim, or for the newlyweds to move, he rises... and extends a hand to his wife. 

She laughs lightly, places her hand in his and stands as well. Right there, in front of all of us, the President and the First Lady gift each other with the kind of kiss that only a couple who has known decades of love can share. 

Applause and cheers erupt on all sides. I _know_ Gilles got a picture of that! 

Whoa - time for the first dance already. This day is passing by way too quickly. Brian and I chose the first song we danced to last year: "Always," by Atlantic Star. Ever since then, I haven't been able to even think of it without thinking of _him_. We come together under the lights, and we dance alone, floating in each other's arms, almost as though there's no one else here. Just him, me, and the familiar, beloved music that wraps around our hearts. 

You're just like the sun, chasing all the rain away 

_When you come around, you bring brighter days_

_You're the perfect one for me, and you forever will be_

_And I will love you so, for always..._

Eventually Rita and Bob join us. That should open the dance floor to everyone else. I owe Bob a dance, too. I've already warned Rita not to monopolize Brian - _my husband_ \- for more than one number as well. He's off the market. 

Too bad my father didn't live to see this. But at least Mr. Lebreton offers a dance in some small consolation. 

The DJ is good, but if I dance to every song I like I'll collapse while the night is still young. It's part of my duty, as well as the groom's, to visit with each of our guests for a little while at least. We probably won't see some of them again for years. Even in this world of airplanes and email, the human race seems to be growing more and more apart. 

All right! _Finally_ , CJ has talked Toby into a dance. Aw - they move so well together. It's just wonderful to see her whole again, and enjoying life. He looks a bit less morose than usual, too. Guess it works both ways. More power to 'em. 

Wow... and there goes the First Couple. They move together even _better_. 

May Brian and I look like that thirty years from now. The Bartlets are our model. 

How funny; everyone else gives them quite a bit of space on the floor, exactly the same as for a state occasion. What an affect they have on people. There really is no such thing as _blending in_ anymore for them, anywhere... and there probably never will be again. Sigh. 

"Colleen." 

Quick, somebody write this down: for the first time ever, my unsmiling boss has used my Christian name. 

"Congratulations." Well, I'll be... is he actually _smiling_ , too? 

No way am I passing up this opening. "Thank you, Ron." Never before have I used _his_ first name, either. "And thanks so much for coming." 

He shrugs, as though trying to salvage some of his reputation for cool reserve. "That was pretty much certain. I'm on Eagle detail tonight." 

"I know. This was the only way I could get you here." 

His suspiciously raised eyebrow cracks me up. It's not as though I figured he'd flatly turn down a direct invitation. And I didn't invite the First Couple solely to make sure my taciturn boss came as well. This is my little payback for the time he introduced me to "Eagle," knowing full well how I'd react. 

He gets the joke, takes it calmly and walks away... but not before I'm _sure_ I saw him smile. 

"Colleen." 

_This_ time I can't prevent a jump at the man who's come up behind me. 

"Mr. President." 

_How_ could I not know he was there? I have no excuse this time... 

His blue eyes are fastened on me. I literally cannot look away, not even to check if his wife is standing beside him. "First off, thanks for letting us come. It's great to get out like this, without being mobbed... and even better to take part in such a joyous event." 

"Oh, we're pretty delighted as well, sir." Now that is an understatement. Besides, I was hardly going to _refuse_ them! Who _would_ reject such an honor? But the deal was, they'd come _if_ they could be successfully spirited out of "Crown." Otherwise they wouldn't be able to really enjoy themselves - and they'd only be a liability to us. 

He sounds like he's purposefully imitating my speech earlier. "Second, I hope you and Brian will be together at least as long as Abbey and I have been." 

Is he a mind-reader, or what? "That's my fervent wish, too, sir." 

"Oh, there will be some bumps in the road, and some fine old fights... but hang in there and keep trusting each other, and it'll all work out. You'll grow even stronger together as a result." He's clearly speaking from long experience. 

"I'll remember that, sir. Thank you so much." 

"And third..." He seems to be waiting for something, for the atmosphere to build. This is so much like the way I introduced them earlier, it's eerie. In _this_ instance, however, people are giving us space rather than listening close. His head tilts a bit and his gaze shifts upwards. Oh, now I understand; he's listening to the music. 

"I like this song." That brilliant gaze returns, twinkling even without the disco ball overhead. "Care to join me?" 

Join... him... 

He means... on the dance... 

It takes me several seconds to register the fact that he's got his hand out, palm up, in a more pointed invitation. My brain feels like it's moving through the molasses of absolute disbelief. 

My President has just asked me... 

"Come on, you're scaring me here." He easily tucks my arm in his and guides me into the open. "I'm not used to being turned down anymore." 

I've got to say _something_. "I - can't imagine why..." 

"I think Abbey tends to frighten all the other women off." 

With good reason, I'm sure. But the words don't come - _thought_ doesn't want to come - as he stops in the middle of the dance floor and faces me. His left hand taking my right. His right arm around my waist. My left hand on his shoulder. 

"But don't worry; you're safe. I managed to pass her off onto someone else for awhile." He leads into the waltz, taking me with him as though it's the most natural thing in the world. 

This is a dream. _No way_ can it be true. 

Except... it is. It's like a modern fairy tale. I can't be imagining the sudden battery of camera flashes. Nor am I imagining the rapt faces on all sides as everyone else pulls back into a wide circle, supremely content just to watch us. 

Everyone - except Brian, who is waltzing as well not far away... with the beautiful First Lady in his arms. 

Believe me, I'm not the least bit jealous. 

I have no idea what the song is. I can't concentrate on it at all; I'm conscious only of the man dancing with me. The man I've sworn to protect with my life. The man who leads our nation. 

I _wish_ my parents could see this... 

I must say, the Bartlets make an excellent parental substitute. 

Thank God my heels are low. Brian and I are the same height, and I didn't want to tower over him today. I don't want to tower over The Man, either; he's at least another inch shorter. I try to slouch a bit without _looking_ like I'm slouching. 

From his mischievous expression, he's not fooled. But maybe he appreciates the gesture. 

All right, high time I acknowledged their generosity. "Thank you for this dance, sir. And the First Lady, too. It's a lovely, lovely gift." 

He's obviously enjoying himself no less. "Glad to do it. Thank _you_ for putting up with _us_ so long." 

As if I'd ever complain. "It's been a privilege and a delight." 

He doesn't miss a step... and he's wearing that smirk again. "Oh, really? I'll remember you said that." As though he's _planning_ to make my job difficult. "And even after that bit of fun just last November, too." 

He _would_ bring up the "Nighthawk" thing. He knows full well I don't like to talk about it. Being thanked personally by the Chief Executive back then was embarrassing enough - never mind being thanked touchingly by his wife. 

Despite our duty and our reputation, not many agents actually do get the chance to save the President. Who _else_ holds the distinction of being saved _by_ the President? Both of these facts have made me rather more self-conscious than usual around him. In fact, this would be the first time since that he's honored me with more than a passing nod or an official instruction. Personally, I've preferred it that way. 

During the sole occasion when we discussed our narrow escape, he admitted that he has absolutely no memory of events between the crash itself and emerging into fresh air. In all likelihood he wasn't even aware of his own actions in those last few seconds. If not for witnesses outside, we never would have known the truth. 

He must be reminiscing along the same lines. "You know, I don't normally associate with my blackmailers like this." 

I have to laugh. He's got _such_ a sense of humor! Still, to be frank, the term "blackmail" is not all that far off the mark. At first he wanted to make an official presentation to me - but I admit that I wasn't at my most obedient there. Quite aside from modesty, I don't believe I _deserve_ heroine status for the chopper fiasco. Besides, if my national leader was going to publicly thank me, in all fairness I should do the same for him. Imagine the news cycle _then_. As I had hoped, he liked that idea even less than I did. So we struck a bargain of mutual silence. "Regina" took more convincing; she wanted to see _both_ of us receive our full due. Fortunately, in the end I managed to stay out of the limelight, which is far better for doing my job anyway. 

Relays click over - Now that I think of it, I bet this dance was planned all along, as another expression of gratitude, by the two of them. 

"Seems to me you pulled off your public tribute after all, sir." The _real_ reason our First Couple wanted to attend my wedding has finally come out. 

He tries to look innocent, which only gets me laughing again. 

I tell you, The Man and his wife are just so thoughtful. That goes a long way towards easing any awkwardness, and it puts even more polish on the career of a lifetime. 

I remember another wish of mine... ages and ages ago. About a formal event, where I could really dress up, let my hair down, and dance with a handsome, kind, intelligent man. 

This is the fulfillment of that wish: my husband and my President, in the very same night. 


	13. I, Lifesaver 13

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 13 ~ 

February 2001 

Ah... an early spring is in the air. You can almost feel the sap rising in the trees. Crocuses to the left, robins to the right... 

I don't usually wax this lyrical with the change of the seasons. I wonder if newlywed status has anything to do with it. 

Pardon me while I pause a moment and drink in the sight of the White House just ahead. 

This may sound horribly cliché, but it's true: everyone should look forward to coming into work in the morning. And I do. I work at one of the most remarkable addresses, with some of the most remarkable people. Sure, I know that every day I may have to risk my life, or even give it - but I'm backed up by a lot of very skilled professionals, all of whom are just as dedicated to ensuring that sacrifice never becomes necessary... for any of us. 

As usual, the various security procedures are in place and functioning properly. It's not unlike a castle, with successive levels the further in you go. And there are many more safeguards that can't be seen. You'd like to think that no one feels afraid to work in this building. They've got more than enough challenges and responsibilities with running the nation; they certainly shouldn't have to _hide_ from it in the process! 

There's Seb outside "Foxtrot." Looks like the day has begun more or less normally for "Regina" so far. But then, they would have radioed me if she were elsewhere. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Lebreton." He's doing his best to keep a straight face. "And how was your honeymoon?" 

I can out-deadpan anyone around here except "Regina" herself. "Good morning, Sebastian." He hates his full name. "And if you're trying to trick me into saying that the honeymoon is over, you're S.O.L. Sure, we're home again - but it's not over by a long shot!" 

He surrenders with a sigh, as though disappointed that I won't play the game the way it's supposed to be played. I wonder if all new couples go through this eyebrow-wagging on the part of their friends. 

Whoops; business is reasserting itself. "I'll warn you now: it's an _angry_ day." 

I don't like the sound of that. But then, everyone who works around the First Lady learns fast to avoid her ire. "Oh, swell. What happened?" 

"Couldn't tell you. For the past week or so the tension factor has been higher than any of us have ever seen before." Seb shifts self-consciously. Did he say or do something to attract unwelcome attention in this mood? "No one's dared ask Herself what's wrong." 

I can feel my eyes narrowing at him. That last line is essentially a dare for me to see if _I'm_ prepared to try. 

Any personal relationship I've managed to cultivate with my protectee must not be manipulated just to appease certain curiosities. However, I always make a point of reporting for duty and seeing if there are any special instructions or changes in the schedule - besides the fact that this is my first day back since my wedding. If she's _that_ annoyed at something, it'd be wise for me to find out what, so that I can steer clear of it and warn others to do likewise. 

I give Seb a cool once-over; he's no shorter than I am, and he must weigh half again as much with all that muscle. Sure enough, he positively blushes, knowing full well that I _do_ dare where he did not. 

Inside, "Regina" is at her desk. Right away I can feel a strain in the air. If I hadn't been told in advance, I would've known at once. She's staring into space, but not in a dreamy way. 

Boy, no wonder Seb didn't ask her. I'm having second thoughts about it myself. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Bartlet." 

Good thing I'd already braced for her look; otherwise I'd be straight out that door again. In a year and a half, I've never seen her display such a strange, simmering anger. 

"Colleen." Oh, yeah; usually I merit a bit more warmth than that. Definitely a day to tread softly in her presence. 

But why? 

Hey, it's not my place to ask or even to know. I'll just stand beside her, or behind her as need be, and leave the political issues to the experts. 

"Any special orders for today, ma'am?" 

When a person exhales through clenched teeth like this, it's more like a kettle venting pressure. "Not yet. I wouldn't bet on the rest of the day, though." 

"Yes, ma'am." Nothing new about that. But from her tone, I don't doubt that whatever she's so mad at is expected to be the prime instigator. 

I'd feel better if I knew what to expect. 

From the new vagueness in her expression, she's already forgotten that I'm here. I shouldn't just leave; it's polite to wait for dismissal. But to be dismissed, I have to be noticed. I need a safe, neutral subject to broach. Hm... 

You know you're hooked on politics when you take time off from your honeymoon to watch the speeches on TV. But then, when the President speaks, the whole nation stops to listen. 

"I caught the State of the Union while we were away -" 

_Yipe!_ Okay, that cold glare was like a physical slap. I think I figured out part of the puzzle. Just let me get my heart restarted and I'll work on it a bit... 

"Yes. The President did quite a job." Her tone could shave iron filings off a bullet jacket. For whatever reason, she was not pleased with that speech at all. 

It must be awful when something as material and superficial as politics comes between husband and wife. Of course, "Eagle" has been in this career for years before the White House - but only now is "Regina" directly involved as well. I'm sure it's too much to hope for that their agendas will always agree. And when one has to give ground, we know who it'll be. 

Then before I can even wonder what to say next, "Colleen, I pray that you and Brian never have to deal with the pressures _we_ do." 

Uh-oh. She's not mad at the speech so much as she's mad at _him_. Obviously the problem is both political _and_ personal. 

Well, whatever it is, I sure hope they work it out soon. Their love is so sweet. This friction feels positively _unnatural_. 

I wonder if my new marital status gives me a better perspective... or an unrealistic one. Right now I'm utterly convinced that Bri and I can weather any storm. But then, a lot of marriages don't make it past even five years anymore. 

On the other hand, the Bartlets have known the long-forged closeness of three solid decades. They've _proven_ that they can handle the worst - together. 

* * *

March 2001 

Every bodyguard knows the sensation of wondering whether _this_ shift will be the one to see something happen. You're always prepared for anything, of course, but most likely it'll be just like countless others before, dull and routine - and safe. 

It's quite a bit different when you start your shift _knowing_ something will happen. 

The conference center is quieting down, with less and less traffic in the halls. I'm just standing here, looking pretty and trying to act natural. Two hours so far and not a blip on the radar screen. In a way, this suspense is worse than the usual constant watchfulness for what might never transpire. The certainty that it _will,_ _tonight,_ preys on my nerves even more... 

Here come "Bookbag" and "Batman," strolling down the corridor like they haven't a care in the world. At least _they're_ enjoying their evening. 

Footsteps coming from the other direction - 

For all my anticipation, I'm almost caught flatfooted by the quartet of familiar faces that rounds the corner only fifteen yards away. Then I see the guns. 

_"Breach!"_ I leap in front of Zoey at once, shouting into my cuff mike and whipping out my own weapon as fast as I can. "Yankee Zulu -" 

By the third syllable I can hardly hear myself over the savage explosion of gunfire - mine _and_ theirs - as flashes of light crisscross this narrow corridor. There is no shelter at all, for any of us - except "Bookbag" herself, who is behind me, and who with Charlie has already dropped to the floor. I manage to bring down one attacker before a wail in my ear tells me I'm hit as well, and I let myself sink groundward. 

The three surviving assailants waste no time; they run forward, stepping right over my body, and haul Zoey to her feet. She's the prize they've killed for. So far, she's unhurt. I don't move; I'm in no position to defend her right now. If they suspect for one second that I'm still alive, and therefore quite likely to come after them - 

She spares one glance for her boyfriend, likewise prone and still. 

And smiles. "So much for our date." 

The tall leader of this attack force is unsympathetic. "Another time. Let's go." 

I wait until their footfalls have receded around the corner from which they came before lifting my head. The traffic in my left ear indicates that at least I raised the alarm, and all other agents are responding fast. They know exactly what to do. 

The messages in my _right_ ear are about my physical condition. Apparently I was hit in one leg - and in the torso. The hi-tech body-stocking saved me from dying outright, but large enough bullets at close enough range will still penetrate. I have maybe half an hour to live. 

I look for "Batman." He's now watching me. "Charlie?" 

"I'm fine." Funny how he doesn't sound too thrilled about it. "I got her down, and then I played dead." 

"Good man." I retrieve my pistol and climb to my feet. I couldn't actually prevent the kidnapping of the First Daughter; I'm not about to waste one minute of that half-hour if I can do anything to get her back. 

He stands as well, slowly and unhappily. "This really sucks." 

"Charlie, you were _killed_ last time. In an abduction your life just doesn't mean much." He needs to get past that "guy" thing about protecting his girlfriend to the death. Ego has no place here. "Besides, when Zoey is rescued, she'll need you." 

"Yeah, sure, whatever." He folds his arms and leans against the wall, resigned to waiting this out. I give him a sympathetic smile before taking up the trail of our enemies. 

As I pass the guy I shot down he calmly rolls over, pillows his head with laced hands, and grins up at me. "Nice shooting." He's supposed to be dead. 

"Thanks. Better luck next time." Then I radio out. "This is Reilly. There are three of them, and they have Yankee." 

If this were real, I'd be leaving a pretty gruesome trail of blood. The electronic sensors in my training jacket keep track of my supposed condition, just as they registered the hits from the assault team's laser emissions. The faster I move, the faster that margin of endurance bleeds away. But if this were real, so long as I could stand I wouldn't think of giving up. Deliberately I limp and hold my right side, acting out the wounds I would have received. 

Just around that corner I find Seb, flat out on his stomach on the carpet, head propped up by both palms, his useless firearm nearby. He looks more than a little annoyed with himself. 

I can't prevent a grin. "Well, _you_ were a lot of help!" 

He scowls at me. "Hey, this was _you_ last time!" 

"Don't remind me." I'm not a whole lot better off than he is right now. If I don't want to die before the endgame as well, I'd better get moving. 

We have the entire conference hall to ourselves. Of course we've all explored its layout, but we don't know the place cold - not like we know "Crown." Let's face it: the odds of such a strike force invading the White House are astronomical... and if it ever _did_ happen, we'd be on our home turf with lots of special methods that nobody __else knows about for ending the invasion _fast_. Besides, we don't want to endanger any national artifacts, _and_ we don't want to interfere with the running of the nation. That building stops for real problems only. 

This kind of security exercise is staged every two or three months, each time involving a large chunk of the Service's protection force and rotating between the more prominent members of the First Family. Usually their complex schedules don't grant us more than one protectee at a time - but when we have two or three available it _really_ gets interesting with all the additional possibilities. To be honest, "Eagle" is the most difficult, since he likes to crack jokes all the way through. Fortunately for _us_ , most of his game plans involve simply trying to kill him; they tend to be over far sooner than kidnapping dramas. (I sure hope he doesn't know what _I_ know: that on the last drill his detail was very tempted to let the assassins pull it off.) 

Both Wings of senior staff are roped into these training runs as well, and members of their immediate support staff as well - the most likely people to be around in a real crisis. Employees even further down the hierarchy have a similar practice session at least once in their career at the White House, but they don't change with every administration. We usually draft the newest arrivals for the "background cast." Most rookies hear about these "war games" in advance and expect it to be fun: a chance to play-act and to watch the Secret Service in action. _Then_ they discover that the adrenaline rush makes it real - and scary. 

Oh, sure, it's no genuine surprise: we schedule a whole evening well in advance, and we have a fully controlled environment. Still, we work hard to make it _feel_ real. No one is told ahead of time just what will happen, or when (except the designated strike team, naturally). The strange floor plan helps keep us from getting too complacent. The mesh jackets everyone wears report on injuries as they occur. Even the guns sound like they shoot lead rather than light. 

I pause to listen to my _left_ ear. Those agents still alive are closing in, swiftly coordinating both movements and plans. The kidnappers don't have access to that frequency, of course, so they can't know _how_ we're trying to stop them. All in all, tonight has been realistic indeed. I can _almost_ forget that it's a simulation; I'm not in pain, but I'm totally pumped. Of course, it's easier to lose yourself in the illusion when you're still actively involved, rather than sitting out the remainder of the test with an electronic DOA signal whining at you. 

The halls and chambers are deserted, which fits for such an emergency. Those staffers here tonight are lying low wherever they may be, not attracting the intruders' homicidal attention, and just waiting for this to end. As they're supposed to. 

"You should know better by now!" 

" _I_ should know better? What about _you?_ " 

I peer around the next corner. "Harvard" and his assistant Donna are seated side by side against a wall. The fact that they're in plain sight means they're among the casualty count. The fact that they're sitting upright instead of lying down means they were just wounded. 

"Who should be protecting _who_ at a time like this?" 

" _Whom_ , Josh." 

"The _man_ protects the _woman_. If I flunk this exercise, it'll be _your_ fault." 

"Oh, excuse me for trying to save your butt!" 

"That's supposed to be _my_ job!" 

"If you could do a _better_ job of it, you wouldn't need _me._ " 

I smile, but don't linger. Sounds like that argument will go on for awhile yet, and my health is deteriorating fast. However, I now know that Zoey and Co. passed this way. 

More radio reports are coming in as the kidnappers encounter resistance and change course. Sounds like they're trying to escape out the back way. I take the next set of stairs and stagger down. Not much time left... 

Okay; they've been spotted in the kitchen. Lots of steel counters to deflect bullets. We'd better be careful; our first priority is to protect "Yankee." (Because this _is_ just practice, we don't use the genuine code names. That way, if something went wrong or a situation arose to abort the scenario, the use of real codes would inform everyone at once. Prudent idea.) 

My readouts are alarming: I'm going critical. Since I only have a short time left, I might as well try to spare my fellows similar damage. No sense in _all_ of us dying tonight. 

"On my signal," I whisper over the channel. "I'll draw their fire." 

I creep carefully, awkwardly forward. The three enemy agents, and their captive, are now visible up ahead, moving quickly towards another exit. They've come close to pulling it off tonight - but _close_ only counts in nukes and horseshoes. 

My status won't let me stand unsupported any longer, so I lean across the nearest counter. Weapon extended in both hands. An easy target. But that doesn't matter to me anymore. 

"Whiskey!" 

Everyone spins my way at once, guns and all. Zoey knows that unusual warning for what it is and throws herself down flat. She's no taller than her parents, and right now that's an advantage. The instant she ducks, I open fire. So do my hidden colleagues on both flanks. 

So do our targets. Most of their barrage starts out in my direction, as we expected. 

No one could hope to survive in the center of this firestorm. But neither will I - never mind the wounds I sustained earlier. Still, the First Daughter has been rescued. Despite the body count, this exercise is a fair success. And before I go down for good, I have the deep satisfaction of nailing the tall ringleader personally. Butterfield didn't get away this time! 

Now I can die happy. 

* * *

April 2001 

It never fails. They say there's always one black sheep in every family, guaranteed to cause trouble and/or embarrassment wherever possible. Well, to my experience there is always one difficult guest in every party, with much the same motive. 

You'd think that the White House at least would be exempt from this basic (and unflattering) human law. 

This is a relatively simple event, even for us. Of course, it's still 1600 Pennsylvania, and everyone dresses accordingly. The fact that "Regina" is hosting keeps things from getting too casual, but "Eagle's" absence reduces the overall formality. Tonight's reception is his wife's initiative, one of many social events she regularly coordinates, in this case a tribute to entrepreneurs and notable achievers of the last year. 

The number of guests under thirty is both encouraging and scary. They're younger than I am and they're CEO's of their own companies! Talk about a tribute to the all-American dream. 

The downside is, with success comes wealth - and both together all too easily give birth to arrogance. 

Normally in a gathering like this I stand near a wall. It's not my place to mingle and strike up casual conversation, and I can sweep the whole room better if I'm not hemmed in on all sides. Besides, we don't want people to think that the First Lady is so fearful of her invitees that she has to keep an armed bodyguard beside her at all times in her own house! 

I'm beginning to wonder about that. I've been watching "Regina" more carefully than usual for several minutes, and I wonder if a bodyguard mightn't come in handy for her any moment now. She's been talking to the same guy all this time - or rather, _he's_ been talking to _her_. And I don't care for his body language. 

As I edge closer, I'm more and more convinced that my impression is correct. The others gathered around to listen to this conversation look decidedly uncomfortable. "Regina" doesn't seem to be bothered much at all... but I get the feeling that she actually is; she's just not letting on. Of course the hostess has to take the worst and simply deal with it. 

Now I'm near enough to pick out most of the sentences. Yup; this fellow is having a time reciting his accomplishments, rattling off what I assume are computer programs and languages. My knowledge there is pretty sketchy. But it's not just that he's kinda full of himself. An invitation to the White House would inflate almost anyone's ego. This guy's attitude is more cutting. It's like he thinks he has a better reason to be here than his hostess herself. His whole attitude reeks of, "I got where I am purely on my own merit, while you're here only because of your husband." 

I can feel my blood pressure rising at the mere thought. Does he know _nothing_ about the First Lady, who is a renowned doctor and a leading scientist in her own right? If Jed Bartlet hadn't won the last election, _Abbey_ Bartlet would almost certainly be present at this gathering anyway, on _her_ personal merit. 

In fact, I think she _did_ attend such an event here, several years ago. Her current conversationalist would've barely ditched his training wheels by then. 

If he _does_ know any of that, he sure doesn't care. And of course the hostess doesn't have the luxury of putting such a punk firmly in his place. The things you're forced to endure when you're the center of attention... 

Oh, but she has her own way of handling obnoxious guests. I think her last comment was a not-so-subtle hint at some of the professional organizations she heads up these days. Beat that with a stick, mate. 

Nope; not working. He comes back with the same - as if it's a competition to see which of them has more letters after their names. I don't believe this. 

But "Regina" just isn't rising to the bait. She won't give him the satisfaction of making her lose her famous poise and composure. She's now pretending to misinterpret his verbal challenge completely. That should click eventually and give him a chance to back off without looking any more ridiculous than he already does. 

Uh-oh. I think he's twigged to her approach... and if anything, it's just made him even madder. As though she hasn't got the decency - or the courage - to acknowledge that he's right! His arrogance knows no bounds. The other listeners are really fidgeting now. 

She's still playing it cool, maddeningly calm. In fact, her demeanor is almost regretful, as if to say, "Is this really the way you want to mark your first - and probably your last - visit to the White House? Fine, then; go right ahead. You'll be kicking yourself later for the memory." 

It's not that "Regina" wants to provoke him. It's that she simply can't indulge in the sort of argument that would shut him up for good. Her role both as hostess and as the most famous woman in the country won't permit it. Too bad, because she's perfectly capable of tearing a strip off of him in about two sentences... and without referring once to her social standing, too. I've seen her do it. 

I think I'd better get even closer, though. As much as I admire her extensive people skills in the most trying of circumstances, there's a mortal limit to what anyone's patience can take. It'd be preferable if I physically oust this nuisance before one of the East Wing employees cocks a fist, or before "Regina" says something entirely fitting to the moment that the news cycle will still make her regret later. 

Thank God "Eagle" isn't here, and for more reasons than I considered earlier. There's still some very tangible strain between the First Couple these days, but in a case like this he'd charge to his wife's defense without an instant's hesitation - and I don't mean figuratively. I can just _see_ the published photo of the President being attacked by his own bodyguards before he could attack one of his own guests! 

At least I won't have to face _that_ disaster tonight. However, I'll have to decide soon just what steps I should or should not take to circumvent _this_ growing problem. It's not my place to defend my protectee's political stance or public image... but right now I'm sorely tempted. 

"Excuse me a minute, please." Oops; my movement seems to have drawn her attention. That was not my intent. I'm supposed to be invisible. But I must've crowded a proximity line or something, because she's interrupted that turkey's tirade to come to me. 

"Stand down, Colleen. You are going to restrain your temper tonight, is that clear?" 

Show no expression, make no move... even though I'm fairly taken aback here. Her tone is sharp, and I honestly don't think I've done anything to earn such censure. When have I ever blown up at anyone? 

Wait a sec - her own expression doesn't fit this kind of dressing-down. She's _smiling_. 

Oh, I get it. A smokescreen. Good thing I didn't let my confusion show. Her irritating guest can't see her face, but he can see mine. And he can hear everything we say. 

"Yes, ma'am." I try to sound chastised and sullen together - as though very reluctant to obey. 

"Good." Her smile broadens at my quick collaboration. "We don't want a repeat of last time, do we?" 

"No, _ma'am_." Especially since there _was_ no last time. But Mr. Loudmouth over there can't know that. 

Apparently convinced that she's preempted any threat of unauthorized action on my part, "Regina" turns back to her dubious conversation with a disarming grin. "I apologize. The Secret Service does get a bit overzealous at times." 

As though I'm a vicious attack dog on a short leash, and her command is all that's spared him from execution! I'm really fighting a smile now. 

The object of our silent collaboration hasn't taken his eyes off me. For my part, I keep my eyes on _him_ , and my features grim. I may have been "ordered" not to take any overt measures, but my protectee never said anything about intimidation. In fact, I know she _wants_ me to. That's her plan all along. 

Well, may I say I am delighted to oblige. 

"That woman is a bodyguard?" He's trying to sound scornful, in keeping with his image, but even I heard the waver in his tone. 

"Regina" isn't the least put out at such an offhanded remark. "That's precisely the reaction we want. No one realizes how dangerous the women are - until it's too late." Which would apply to her as well. I have to clamp even firmer control over my growing desire to grin. "However, the women are also more impulsive." 

Oh, boy; he's getting a little green around the gills. A generous dose of fear should knock some sense into that thick head when all diplomacy fails. Wow, he's even making his excuses to step away! Well, better late than never. The First Lady can teach a person manners better than anyone else I've ever met. And now she's free to visit with other, less monopolizing guests. 

She strolls this way, probably headed towards someone she's wanted to speak with for the past quarter-hour. Is it my imagination, or is everyone giving her just a bit more space than they did before? 

It's not my imagination that the ones standing near enough to follow this little drama are all smiles. 

I step back also, careful as ever not to get in her way. But I don't miss her passing glance. She doesn't wink, exactly... still, I'm sure there's a hefty measure of satisfaction in that look, at the smooth way she and I work together. 

I don't miss her passing whisper, either: "Saved my life." 

Now I _have_ to smile. Mission accomplished. 


	14. I, Lifesaver 14

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 14 ~ 

May 2001 

I never tire of it. "Crown" at night is simply breathtaking. Between the architecture and the patriotism, it can move the most cynical of American souls. I've seen the worst sides of DC at all hours... but this gorgeous building can almost make one forget the ugliness of poverty so close - and the ugliness of politics even closer. 

The downside is that it was a real wrench to leave Brian at home. For the next seven nights we'll be apart. I don't deserve any exemption from this angle of my job, though. And it's just for a week, after all. If we can't survive that long -! 

Boy, when you first come off the day shift, the difference in the atmosphere inside this place is stunning. Oh, sure, the White House never completely sleeps. The majority of the cleaning is done now, and usually there's at least one WestWinger around until midnight. Besides, one never knows when the next national emergency will hit; everyone could be called in at a moment's notice. But as my duties shift from the steady bustle of the _East_ Wing to the Residence, which is _supposed_ to be a haven of peace at night, I really notice the contrast. 

All too often, though, "Eagle" will drag himself upstairs in the wee hours. He gets by on so little sleep sometimes... I swear, what we put our leaders through borders on cruel and unusual punishment. 

Well, speak of the devil and you see his horns. There's the Man just ahead. 

Wait a minute - 

Something's wrong. 

He's wandering the Cross Halls, aimlessly, and very slowly. From his bowed head and the hunch in his shoulders, something is really bothering him. 

And there's not another agent in sight... 

You'd think the President would be allowed to stroll freely through his own home in the dead of night. This is the most secure of buildings, after all. But even so, there's always supposed to be a brace of bodyguards nearby. 

Did another trouble spot in the country, or in the world, suddenly flare up again? No; that doesn't fit with his attitude. This isn't contemplation; this is despondency. 

Anyway, in a real crisis "Eagle" would never be left alone. It must be a personal matter, and everyone's just giving him some space. 

But what if... Okay, my imagination's shifted into high gear. Could our radios be down somehow? Are they being monitored? Has some force infiltrated the White House itself? 

Get _real_ , girl! At the merest hint of trouble "Eagle" would be whisked away. Besides, an invasion would target him first, not just let him stroll about. If I call in, I'll get all the answers. 

"Sst. Colleen." 

Even with that imagination of mine, I don't quite jump at this soft whisper. Agents know how to _not_ send each other into Alert mode. The shadow behind that pillar must be someone on "Eagle" detail. 

Yep; it's Karl - and he looks perfectly calm. One long breath, then another, and I can feel my muscles unknotting. 

"Well, I'm glad _someone's_ keeping an eye on him." I take care to whisper as well as I move to join him in his surreptitious surveillance. 

"We've increased the buffer space tonight." Karl's watching his protectee alertly, even from more than half a corridor away. 

"Boy, have you ever. What's going on? I've never seen him look so depressed." 

Oh - damn. Let me guess. We all know he's about to go public with his illness. 

Anyone would flinch from standing before the world with _that_ news, much less a politician. 

We in the Service didn't know about the MS until last week. Not like how the brass at least knew about "Dexter's" history. And this is far more sensitive. 

We've all had time to come to grips with the new truth about this man we'd die to protect, but I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it myself. He's our leader. But he's human. He _has_ to be frank with us. Still, he deserves _some_ privacy. This disease can be potentially crippling. But it _might_ not affect his job. Back and forth, forth and back... 

Or... could he be feeling ill right now? That _would_ be a good reason to seek solitude. 

"There was a car accident earlier." 

Karl's blunt statement slices through me. My God, now I understand. That's _grief_. 

"Who died?" I'm afraid to ask. A member of his staff? A member of his _family?_

"Just his secretary." 

Oh, no... "Just" his secretary, my ass. 

I've seen Mrs. Landingham before, of course, whenever I accompany "Regina" over to the West Wing. Not _that_ often. But she's pretty unforgettable. 

Ouch. I can't prevent a wince. She _was_. 

Near the hall's other end, "Eagle" has stopped. He's mostly turned away from us, but I can see how his whole posture is weighted down with sorrow, and the helpless way one hand rubs across his eyes. 

"She was obviously more than his secretary," I mutter aloud without meaning to. 

Karl's derisive snort hits me like a blow. "Nothing new about _that_ in politics." 

My anger boils upwards at the mere thought. "Get your mind out of the gutter!" I sure don't want this conversation carrying to any other ears, so I hold myself down to a furious hiss. "If you don't know the First Couple better than that by now -!" 

"Okay, okay." 

Any President would need someone he liked and _trusted_ for that role. And she had to like _him_ to work with him every day, and to put up with his wackiness in the process. They probably knew each other long before the White House. 

Our leader is on the move again, one listless step at a time. I'd bet right now that he'll be wandering these beautiful chambers for a long while yet. I'd also bet that he won't really see any of them. She must've been a very old and close friend indeed. 

I shouldn't be lingering here; I'm overdue in the Residence. But I hate to leave him like this. Even though he has no idea I'm here, even though he needs to be alone... I want to be here for him in _some_ way. I just ache to see him so grief-stricken. Am I glad I can't see his face. 

For all his exalted position in society, he's no more or less human than any of us. And he's not afraid to admit it, either. A lot of important people, especially those who wield power, try to act like they're above any hint of mortal emotion, weakness or failing. But our "Eagle" doesn't pretend that both friendship and pain can't affect him. The leader of the people has to relate _to_ the people. The most powerful man in the world... is still a man. 

* * *

June 2001 

"Colleen? Can you hear me? Come on, sweetheart, I'm right here. Wake up, _please!_ " 

Brian. Worried. 

Strange bed. PA system in the background. 

Hospital. 

Oh, God... it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. My nightmare is reality. 

I don't want to wake up. No dream could possibly be worse. 

"Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried!" The bed shifts as he tries to hug me while I'm lying flat and covered up. _"You're all right!"_

I'm definitely awake now. Nothing I can do about that. About _anything_. 

"No... I'm _not_ all right." I don't want to look at him, to see the accusation in his eyes... 

"You could have been _killed!_ " Of course; he's only concerned for me. Perfectly natural. "But you're okay. You weren't hurt at all. They just want to keep you here overnight for observation." His lips brush my forehead. "Everything's going to be fine." 

Like hell everything will be. This time I do look at him. 

From his expression, he honestly believes that statement. But in a way, his total focus on me only makes it worse. How can I hope to show him what I feel right now? 

" _Fine?_ Don't you understand? The First Lady has been abducted! It's quite possible she _will_ be killed! And it's _MY FAULT!_ " 

I shouldn't yell at him. It's not _his_ fault. 

Good; I don't think he took it personally. I don't want _him_ mad at me, as well as everyone else. "Oh, babe, don't blame yourself. I'm sure you did everything you could." He just keeps stroking my hair, soft and comforting, like I was a child under _his_ care. "And they could've killed _you_ , too!" 

It's so good to have him here, to be wrapped in his love... but even my husband can't patch the gaping wound in my being. "I almost wish they had." 

He makes the whole bed jerk. "Colleen -!" 

This time I really stare back at him. I've _got_ to make him understand. "Brian, the President and his wife have just been torn apart. The odds are enormous against them ever seeing each other again. And her safety was _my_ responsibility. _How_ can I look him in the eye and explain my failure?" 

Brian knows who the "him" is. In my work there is no other. "Honey -" 

"From day one, my greatest nightmare has been allowing _his_ greatest nightmare to come true. Well, it's happened - and I had the power to prevent it. You _know_ how close they are. I'm not only to blame for her danger, but I'm also to blame for his suffering. Not to mention the future of the whole country, when the kidnappers call in with their demands." 

I'm shaking. Because I failed in my duty, someone is in a perfect position to blackmail the President of the United States - for the life of the woman who shares his soul. 

If "Regina" does live through this, I'm going to have to face her afterwards. 

If she doesn't... I'm going to have to face _him_. 

Come what may, for the rest of my life I have to face myself. 

Brian tries to hold me even tighter. He's so desperate to protect me himself. And I love him for it, even if he can't. No one can. 

"Colleen, I know you did your best. The President won't blame you -" 

I have to turn away, fighting tears. "Of _course_ he will... even if he doesn't want to. How would _you_ feel if somebody allowed me to be snatched away? Or how do you think _I'd_ react if _you_ were the one held at gunpoint? And _his_ decisions will affect the entire _world!_ " 

Boy, have I made my mark on history... one of the blackest marks possible. 

Merciful heavens, what have I _done?_ I've let them _both_ down, right when they were counting on me the most! 

And then there's "Mayfair." The Service will try to rescue "Regina" at all costs... even if that means sacrificing Lilli Mayes. The First Lady won't thank me for _that_ , either. 

Will _any_ of them ever be able to forgive me? 

Dear Lord, can _You_ forgive me? 

Can I ever forgive myself? 

"Excuse me." 

Both of us start. Neither of us heard a knock or an opening door. We were too focused: Brian on me, me on _them_. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. I know that voice. It's the one _other_ person I can't bear to face right now... 

"Mr. Lebreton? Ron Butterfield, Secret Service. Colleen's supervisor." 

I'm sure Brian can feel my new, even greater tension. 

"Look, give her a little time, okay? She's been through hell." That's my guy, flying to my defense against all odds. He's heard me mention my boss before. He knows that Ron can be scarier than the President himself. 

"Don't worry. I'm not here to reprimand her. But I do need to talk to her. Would you mind giving us just a few minutes?" 

Those loving arms tighten. Neither of us wants me to be left alone with the man ultimately in charge of the welfare of the First Family. Not when that Family has been shattered - by my failure. 

"Her high-security job can damned well wait a bit. She's been hurt enough for one night!" 

"And the last think I'd do is add to that hurt. I'm glad she's all right - and not just because she has information we need. The Service takes care of its own." There's a strange pause, not like Butterfield at all. "Please." 

Whoa, when before did this frighteningly efficient man ever come so close to a plea? I can't imagine. 

"Colleen, love?" 

I have no doubt that if I say no, Brian will defy any such request from my boss, my employers, my President... 

My boss said "Please"... 

Long, deep breath. I don't want to do this. But I _must_. 

"Okay." It only comes out as a whisper, but it commits me to this course. 

When he slips away from me, all I feel is cold. Bereft. Alone. 

I wait until the door closes before I force myself to look. 

Butterfield is standing at the foot of my bed, as ominous as the Ghost of Christmas Future. 

I now know what it feels like to face a firing squad. Try to show a little dignity, even when you have no hope at all. 

"You've already given your initial report through Seb. I'm not here to grill you further." His tone is as crisp and business-like as ever. 

I totally clench up. Here it comes... 

"This is a direct order. _Don't_ blame yourself." 

Okay, that I wasn't expecting. Even after his reassurance to Brian, even after the "Please"... 

"Remember Gina?" 

How could I forget? "Batman" and "Bookbag" were targeted, "Eagle" and "Harvard" were almost killed, and she never forgave herself... 

Oh. I think I see what he's getting at. The man sure knows how to make a point. 

If that shooting wasn't Gina's fault, is this kidnapping really mine? 

"Exactly." He also knows how to read expressions. "I do not want to see you go through the same self-inflicted and _unnecessary_ purgatory." 

But everyone survived that attempt. It's all too possible that the First Lady won't get through _this_. 

"Imagine how _I_ felt at Rosslyn, when I realized that Eagle had been hit after all. We did everything we could, everything we were supposed to do, and he still took a slug. It happened, through no fault of ours. We got him into the car, I judged his condition, and we got him to the hospital. We did our job. If he had died, it would've been because that slug had moved over one more inch, not because we'd failed him." 

Maybe all this is true - but it still felt like we screwed up, even though he lived. 

Dallas, 1963. 

No one is absolutely safe. 

But that's why _we're_ here! 

Butterfield pauses again. It's so uncharacteristic for him to do so. "I've had to remind myself of that quite a few times ever since." 

I can feel my eyes widen in disbelief. It doesn't amaze me that the leader of the free world has feelings... but for some reason it floors me that my boss, the unsmiling head of White House security and "Eagle" detail, does as well. _He_ felt guilt, and inadequacy? 

Two agents have already died tonight. Who will be _next?_

"Colleen, there was simply nothing else you could have done." 

He used my name. 

"They had a gun to your head. One move from you and either Regina or Mayfair could have been killed on the outset. You dying wouldn't have prevented a thing." 

Really? If only I'd been more observant, more alert, I would've noticed _something -_

"There was no way on earth you could have known that Chariot was actually a trap." Holy... I swear he's telepathic. I haven't said a word to him yet. "Always before, it's been the safest place for the protectee. No, the kidnappers knew exactly what they were doing. They knew they _had_ to kill the car escorts. They could have easily killed you, too. But they didn't. They wanted to prove to Eagle that they can be trusted, that they won't murder Regina out of hand, and that they will return her if he gives in to them." 

Right, like any of us are going to believe them! But either way... 

"He can't possibly negotiate." My voice is hoarse. The _anguish_ our leader has to be going through! "Not even for his _wife!_ " 

"No." The finality, and the sympathy, in that one word make me shiver again. "But until the abductors realize that, the odds are very good that Regina and Mayfair will be treated well for some time yet." 

Since when does the Secret Service play the odds? 

"The moment that ring signal comes through, we're on it." 

If it ever does... She didn't give it up, but she has to be alive to use it... 

"I've already said this to Eagle; now I'm saying it to you. We _will_ find them. We'll get them back. Both of them. Alive." 

The Secret Service, the police, the military - they're all on the job. No one can escape this dragnet for long. All we need is time. 

Time... is something neither the prisoners nor the President have. 

And what will happen _when_ they're found? A massacre? 

"In the meantime, I need your help." 

Wow, he's riveted my attention for sure now. " _My_ help?" 

"Yes." I like to think I'm a fair judge of attitudes as well, and there's nothing the least bit patronizing about this request. "When you're out of here, I'd like you to help me brief all the members of the assault team on how to care for Regina and Mayfair once they're rescued. We've both seen what victims of abduction go through afterwards." 

Have we ever - from our direct experience with "Flamingo" last winter. 

What are the First Lady and her Chief of Staff going through _right now?_

What are the chances of them ever being found? Not good at all. 

If they _are_ found, what is the likelihood of them ever being the same again? Nonexistent. 

Oh - right. My boss asked me a question. 

"Yes. I'll help." If they're found, they'll need our help in more ways than one. 

Just let them be found... 

Okay, I think that's a hint of a smile. The second one I've ever seen my boss show. "Good. That'll be a very important contribution." 

At least I can do _something_ to atone in part for my - 

"Maybe the thought of it will help you sleep." 

He actually sounds _worried_ about me. 

"In either case, try to rest. I'll see you back at Crown. When you feel up to it." 

I have to swallow twice past my wonder. "... Yes, sir." 

I guess the formidable Ron Butterfield has exceeded his allotment for compassion for this year; he leaves with only a nod of farewell. But the memory of that concern lingers. He has the entire White House and the President himself to take care of, during a crisis of monstrous proportions, and he still finds the time and the inclination to speak to me. 

He's right. I didn't fail because I fell down on the job, because I froze up or didn't make the right decision. I failed because I was tricked. We were all fooled together. By props. 

Same result - what happens _now?_

Sleep? Not likely. I'll just stay here, recover from that gas... and wait anxiously for any news, either good or horrendous. Exactly like "Eagle," his whole family, and "Mayfair's" husband must be doing as well. Like the rest of the nation. 

I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Maybe if I can help find the solution...? 

Who could have done this? Who would be able to engineer such a coup? And _why?_

Well, there are certainly enough candidates for enemy of the President - 

Wait... not "Halogen!" Or even "Hallmark" herself... 

Nah. Surely not... 


	15. I, Lifesaver 15

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 15 ~ 

July 2001 

I've escorted "Regina" to "Oscar" any number of times in the past. This is the first time I've been invited inside with her. 

I've been inside the Oval before, a couple of times, as part of "Crown" indoctrination - while it was empty. I've even been inside once while "Eagle" was present: when he assigned me to protect "Flamingo" last December. 

This time, both Bartlets are here. Still, something tells me that's not why _I'm_ here. 

Why _am_ I here? Does "Regina" think she needs protection from her husband? (Hey, no snickering on the job.) 

This chamber is _so_ intimidating... 

Whoa; Butterfield has been included, too. Things are shaping up for a real Battle of the Sexes. (Okay, girl; enough snide remarks, even to yourself.) 

"Eagle" is at that beautiful carved desk, on the phone. I try not to stare at him as "Regina" directs me towards the closer sofa, where my boss is already entrenched. 

Our leader seems grateful for the distraction our arrival has provided. "Look, I have to go." He rolls his eyes at the other party, knowing full well they can't see him. "Let me tell you, even I don't like to argue with the Secret Service. I'll call you back." 

If you asked me, I'd say he hung up with a great deal of satisfaction. He comes over to join us, dusting his palms as though from the grime of some unpleasant labor. "I love using you guys as an excuse to get me out of things." 

All part of the service, sir. Oops - I almost said that aloud. This is no place for light comedy. At least, not on _my_ part. 

"Regina" doesn't hesitate. "Oh, stop blaming them for your own shortcomings." 

"Hey, I'm not taking the blame myself. I don't _have_ to." This man is such a merry boy at times. He settles onto the other sofa beside his wife, so close they're touching, and her arm slides through his in the most natural way imaginable. I'm getting a warm glow just savoring this sight. Every day I think: what a relief that they're together again, and that all hatchets are buried. 

Now it looks like the First Couple is aligned squarely against the Secret Service in some sort of conflict. I don't think that's the case, but I still haven't been told why _I'm_ here this time. I'm more than a little nervous waiting to find out. 

"Thank you for taking the time to see us today, Mr. President." I'm even more nervous about having Butterfield here, since his presence implies that all this has to do largely with me... but at least I can leave the talking to him. 

"Ron, I was joking when I said I don't like arguing with you. I _love_ a good argument. Now let's have at it." Then "Eagle" aims his eagle eye at me. "Colleen, you're probably wondering why I asked you here today..." 

He might have gone on along similar comedic lines, but "Regina" cuts through this levity with a firm tug on his arm. 

"Mr. President, you're probably correct." I don't think it's proper for me to feed into what is obviously a jovial executive mood today - but it's sure hard _not_ to. 

And to think I could barely line up two coherent words in a row when I first met him. How we change... It's such a delight to _really_ know these amazing people. 

"Go ahead, Ron. I think we've kept her in suspense long enough." 

My boss needs no further invitation, as focused as ever. "We have an idea about a new experiment for security during the campaign, and we want to try it before the actual campaigning starts in earnest. Everyone knows the President is running again." 

I take absent note of the fact that he's speaking to me, not them. This has already been discussed in advance. Looks like I'm the last piece of the puzzle. 

"I won't go into the various reasons why we want to beef up security; you know them already." Oh, yeah - Rosslyn, "Nighthawk" down, "Flamingo's" abduction, the MS, _"Regina's"_ abduction... there have been a few too many high-tension points in this administration for comfort's sake. "During a campaign we've got to be more discreet than ever. At the same time, the risk factor multiplies. The President has to be able to move around in the open." 

I spare a glance for the Bartlets, who are sitting still and silent, and closely watching my reaction. "Eagle's" smile has faded at this blatant reference to the danger he lives with every single day. His wife looks even more serious. 

"I want you to be our secret weapon, whenever the President appears in public." 

I turn back, my eyebrows rising is frank astonishment. "Me?" I'd swear we've had this conversation before. Oh, yeah; when I was recommended for "Flamingo" detail. 

There's one small problem with this... "But you almost never assign women to Eagle detail." 

"That's the key to this whole operation. Your gender, _and_ your experience." 

Now that is a compliment. And from Butterfield himself, yet. 

But all this lead-up... _What_ am I in for? 

"When the President steps outside the White House, we need a way to keep an agent very close by, but invisible - both to the people, and to any potential attacker. At such times you'll be incognito, looking like just another staff member. We'll create a new identity and a new position. You need the excuse to always be right at hand." 

"Great idea!" "Eagle" pipes up. "You can be my amanuensis. Then all my best jokes will be preserved for posterity!" 

"In actual fact, you'll be wired and armed like always." It's not politic to ignore one's Chief Executive, even when he's only wisecracking. My boss does a masterful job of bypassing said wisecracks and staying on topic. I'd like to learn this art form. In fact, I think I'll _need_ to. "The detail size is naturally increased in an election year, but they'll hang back a bit further and give the viewers some room. Should anything happen... you'll be closest." 

Which means that if my comrades are _too_ far away, I'll be the last chance "Eagle" has. 

Dear God, what an unnerving thought. Not that I might die - but that _he_ might! 

Seems to me I've been down this road of self-doubt already, and not long ago... 

"Colleen." I jerk out of my trance at these frightening thoughts. "Regina" looks decidedly somber. "This means you'll have to leave _my_ detail, and I'll be sorry to see you go. But it's worth it to me if we can make this experiment work. It's worth _anything_ to me to safeguard my husband... from himself." 

And _poof_. Those two last words pop the bubble of apprehension. 

"Yes, by all means talk about me as though I'm not here," "Eagle" grumbles. "After all, I am fifteen years old, and I'm forever breaking curfew or running away from home." 

Actually, running _away_ is the _last_ thing he's doing. 

We all know that he's campaigning again despite his wife's original wish that he wouldn't. She's since come around to his way of thinking, but no one would deny her the right to give him a token needling now and then. 

Personally, I don't want to see him break down under the unrelenting pressures of his office for _anything_... but I don't want to see him just give up, either. He's gambling here, and the scales are almost perfectly balanced. It's not certain that he'll win re-election. It's also not certain that his medical condition will worsen before the end of a second term. It _is_ certain that he can't win an election if he doesn't run at all. 

And it's certain that the risk of assault will decrease if he loses, and increase if he wins. 

What a dilemma. Because this man is a very good President... and, like every human, he deserves the chance to live his life while he can, doing his best for others. 

Well, he's made his decision to fight, and I for one am glad. Even though it may throw me into the forefront of guaranteeing his safety. 

I _have_ done it before... sort of... 

Still, I'm not completely sold on this new approach. "Uh... won't some people wonder a bit about an unknown woman being constantly around the President like that?" We do have to think about the public image here. 

"Eagle" lets out a guffaw. "Yeah, you can't trust me at all!" He leans back and crosses his arms. "Or you _wouldn't_ be able to, if I wasn't already married to the sexiest woman around..." 

"Regina" just looks at him... in tolerance, and in warning. 

"And the most dangerous," he adds quickly. 

It's not easy, but I manage to resist a smile. They are too funny and too _cute_. Better that Butterfield and I pretend to miss the whole exchange. 

My boss isn't done yet. "The purpose here is for you to be as inconspicuous as possible. Assailants won't pay much attention to a woman holding files and papers, even if she _is_ close to their target. That is your advantage. If our visible strength doesn't deter them - or _stop_ them - then you'll be our final guarantee that they still won't succeed." 

I understand: a last-ditch line of defense, when all else fails... eek. 

"You'll also have a different viewpoint of the security arrangements, the crowds and the events. We can benefit from that info as well. Meanwhile, the public will get the idea that the President is more accessible and less cut off from them, whereas in fact he'll be more closely protected than ever." 

Two compliments in one day. I'm not sure I can handle this. 

"Inside the White House, you'll help out with standard security as usual. As yourself. We don't want those who know you to start wondering where you've gone." 

Good point; quite a few people are used to seeing me with "Regina" by now. 

I'm being offered the ultimate promotion: "Eagle" detail, officially. 

This isn't butterflies. It's ants... termites... _spiders_. 

Then there's the fact that I'd have to leave "Regina" in the care of someone else. 

Now _that_ sounds pretentious. I'm quite sure that whomever the Service assigns to her next will be fully capable. Nothing but the best for the First Family, after all... 

Especially _these_ days... 

The last six weeks have been quite peaceful - as far as the White House can possibly be in that regard. I've had flashbacks more than once both of "Eagle's" recovery after Rosslyn and of "Flamingo's" recovery last December. Both Bartlets took almost a month off from public appearances. Granted, they spent most of it here; "Crown" is the most secure place around, bar none. Besides, this is the lap of luxury, and they're surrounded by their colleagues and friends. Their daughters all moved in for the first week, too. The atmosphere of reunion, of restored family, permeated the entire building. It was marvelous to experience, for _all_ of us. A shame it had to come at so high a price: the First Lady's peace of mind. 

Actually, compared to CJ, "Regina" took far less time to put the past behind and resume her regular round. Her abduction was slightly less traumatic, after all. Also, she's older and has had more life experience in general. I can see a similar parallel between "Eagle" and "Harvard," where one developed a full-blown PTSD and the other didn't. When you've been around longer, you're more firmly grounded in yourself and more confident in your ability to deal with whatever life throws your way. 

I also have no doubt that each of the First Couple draws enormous strength from the other. Friends are essential to function and to survive in this world. Children are the gateway to the future. But a spouse... well, let's just say that I've really gained an added appreciation for the closeness and the sheer power of that bond. I'm sure he wouldn't have handled being shot anywhere near as well without her - and she most likely would've had a nervous breakdown last month but for him. 

And for the "Nighthawk" crash, they were together all along. 

"Regina" and I haven't discussed her abduction at all since her return. She's never broached it, and I sure don't want to remind her of what she'd just as soon forget. I know she had a few bad nights at first; there's only so much that makeup can hide from someone who's close by all the next day. I know that for a while her husband was calling almost every hour. I know that her staff did everything they could to keep things normal and not overburdened. I know that her daughters waited on her hand and foot. 

I know that "Mayfair" came back to work the moment she was released from hospital. Considering _her_ injury, I was more than a little impressed. But between her own husband and her boss, whom she almost worships, Lilli found all the strength she needed to get life back on track at once - in a very real sense, for both of them. That must have been an additional and _vital_ factor to the First Lady's healing. 

End result: the East Wing is steaming along at full throttle again, and its two principle workers seem perfectly comfortable - indeed, relieved - with that cheerful news. 

Which only leaves me. 

I have absolutely no grounds for complaint. I walked away with hardly a bruise. Enough people have told me not to feel guilty that I think I'm finally believing it myself. 

Now if only I could stop imagining the looks aimed my way as I walk with "Regina" through the halls... 

I _must_ be imagining them. I haven't heard so much as a whisper about my ability to continue protecting her, among my fellow agents or among the White House staff - or even in the papers. I know "Regina" refuses to blame me herself. Amazingly, "Eagle" doesn't appear to, either. 

But if pressure arose, either public or political, that she clearly needs a stronger, more able bodyguard (read _male_ )... 

Or if I thought that I was more nervous myself, more prone to overreact, more likely to jump to conclusions and perhaps even endanger her... 

Or if I thought that just the sight of me reminded her of what she went through... 

I've come to like her personally, and very much at that. I wouldn't add to her discomfort _or_ her risk for the world. I wouldn't wait to be asked; I'd put in for a transfer myself. 

If anyone _does_ think that I should be reassigned as a consequence of failure, they'd never consider me for _"Eagle"_ detail. The First Lady is giving me up because she believes, and not alone, that I'm good enough to protect the man she loves. 

I guess pulling it off once before is an added bonus in her eyes... 

Suddenly I remember that I'm still sitting here in the Oval Office, and that three people - three very special people - are still waiting for my response. How long have I _kept_ them waiting? Thirty seconds? Ten minutes? 

Yet even my leader, who shouldn't have to wait for _anything_ , hasn't shown the first sign of impatience. They're all willing to let me really think their proposal through, and digest all the ramifications thereto. 

If I refuse, the whole concept will die. No one else in "Crown" qualifies right now. 

This plan has its merits. At the very least, it should be worth a try... 

I take a deep breath. "I'm honored that you all feel I'm skilled enough and _trustworthy_ enough for this role." 

"Regina" breaks into one of her soft smiles. "Never doubt either." 

I incline my head at her kindness. Still... "I'll need to consult my husband first. There is an added risk factor to this assignment." 

"Eagle" nods at once, this time with no hint of humor. "Of course." Certainly I should take Brian's opinion into account, especially after my own close call just last month. 

Interesting: none of them seem all that concerned that I might reject their offer, for _any_ reason. How well do they think they know Bri - or me? 

Also, The Man makes no excuse for adding to my physical danger, even though there is no more dangerous detail in America. If I weren't aware of that fact, and fully prepared to face it, I wouldn't be here in the first place. Besides, any risk to me is based upon equal risk to him. He and I will be in the firing line together. 

These are the three people I felt most driven to apologize to in June: my boss, my protectee and my President. And yet they're all willing to place _his_ life in _my_ hands. 

If I ever needed proof positive of the trust some people have in me, despite everything else... 

I could use Brian as an excuse to say no, out of fear... but not out of guilt. 

And I've never before backed down from the risk. 

* * *

July 2001 

This will be my first election as anything but a voter. I have a lot to learn. 

Security is especially hard in a campaign. The candidates _have_ to be able to reach out to the people... in particular when the President is running again. And _our_ President is a real people person. Of course, all of us have to face the brutal truth that absolute protection is an absolute impossibility. Unless it's a "Rose Garden campaign," where he sticks close to the White House, then it's going to be one security nightmare after another. 

Here's another thing that I never anticipated: there's bound to be some conflict between the Service and the West Wing staff. They have the final say on where "Eagle" should go for maximum effectiveness in the public eye. We can only make recommendations about where he _shouldn't_ go, for safety reasons. Even Ron Butterfield can't countermand such an administrative decision - unless it's already an emergency. But in past instances where the Service has been ignored or overruled for the sake of PR, not-so-pleasant things have tended to happen. Does Rosslyn ring any bells? 

Still, you can't just seal The Man inside a strongbox. If he's to campaign... if he's to _lead_... he has to be visible. And vulnerable. 

There's an added twist to this subtle difference of opinions backstage. "Eagle's" staff gets loads of invitations for him to appear all over the country. If they want to refuse such an invitation, for whatever reason, they'll most often say that "security won't let him." That saves them from bruising any egos or losing any votes in places not important enough to merit the President's time. After all, no one questions the Service. 

I confess I didn't have quite that kind of contribution in mind. But whatever works... 

Before "Eagle" so much as steps outside of "Crown," an elaborate security net has to be in place. It's an enormous responsibility, a gigantic pressure, and it demands long hours of preparation and rehearsal. There is no margin for error. I never realized just how much worse it is for him than even for his wife. The advance team is larger, and goes down earlier to secure every place he's going to stop at or even pass by. A trained paramedic team always travels with him and follows his every move, blending in with our guys and hoping, just like we do, that _none_ of us will be needed. Every vehicle that's part of the motorcade is flown in ahead, and his medical records are kept in every car he uses. 

I must say, my new role is interesting. And I thought I was ignored before! But no one expects a woman to protect a male leader, especially not the President himself. After all, a lot of people would say, he's much too critical to entrust to anyone but the strongest, never mind the whole gender issue itself. In fact he himself ignores me most of the time - which is what he's supposed to do. So I just tag along a couple of paces behind, constantly jotting notes on a large clipboard... or so it seems. In fact, that clipboard is a bulletproof shield, and the paper on it a blind. Any genuine administrative duty would just distract me. The only thing I might take note of is the security arrangements, if something catches my eye. After all, in a very real sense I'm on the inside of the ring now, rather than the outside. It's a curious new perspective. 

It never occurred to me that my identity would pose its own problem. The truth is, after the "Regina" kidnapping I became rather well known myself around _both_ sides of the White House. If this experiment was going to be tested accurately, even "Eagle's" close people shouldn't know who his new shadow really is. So here I am with a totally different look: one that Brian doesn't like at all. It almost physically hurt to dye my red hair an unprepossessing sandy brown. The sacrifices one makes for one's job! I also have to wear these annoying glasses. They back up the image of a bookish, non-threatening secretary type, and their tinted lenses hide the fact that my eyes are constantly on the move, taking in everything. 

Of course I'm still wired, but I don't take part in the standard radio checks while I'm playing this part. And I'm armed, and I'm primed to move on the first hint of trouble. The level of vigilance that "Eagle" detail demands is simply exhausting. 

So far, none of the West Wing staff have given any sign that they recognize me. I imagine they wondered a bit at first as to why this stranger is suddenly around so much, but by now I'm sure they usually forget I'm here. Only "Dexter" and "Batman" are in the know. I even have a new name. We needed one as close to "Colleen" as we could get, in case someone slips, so that they can cover up the first syllable with the second. "Eagle" is already famous for the trouble he has getting names right. Leanne Maraldo, at your service. Trust me, I've had far less pleasant covers in my anti-counterfeiting days. 

One fringe benefit to this secret role is a perk denied to almost all other agents: I often get to ride in the back of "Stagecoach" with "Eagle" himself. Of course there's usually at least one other staff member in the car as well, so I don't let the mask drop. But I have witnessed some very comical moments between him and his people. Do you have any idea how hard it is not to laugh at times? I've got to stay apart from the staff, apart from everyone. Just fade into the background, see but not be seen. 

It's weird to watch my colleagues on "Eagle" detail surround me as well, as though I weren't one of them any longer. I have a new appreciation for what I've put my protectees through in the past. I watch the guys move expertly around us, covering open areas smoothly, needing only a glance to coordinate their movements. Of course I'm no longer on crowd control myself, but I can sure sympathize with them; that is _the_ most nerve-racking aspect to our job, where we have to maintain the highest level of alertness. I still keep a sharp eye out, though, all the time, just in case. I won't act unless I'm needed, but I won't hesitate to blow my cover if I _am_ needed. 

Then there's the famous image of the man paid to take the bullet. Most of the public doesn't know that every agent wears one of those life-saving body-stockings. One guy, though, has the real Kevlar vest under his clothes. He looks slightly overweight as a result. It also makes him that much bigger a target - and shield. Of course, that vest won't save limbs from being shattered - or skulls. Still, any agent would prefer that to letting a bullet get by. Then again, bodyguards have to be prepared to risk their lives at any moment... but they naturally find it easier to overcome the instinct for self-preservation if they know they have a good chance of survival themselves. Besides, every one of us must be able to keep doing our job until the crisis is completely over. And our lives do have _some_ little value, too... 

It'd be far better if details like this don't become common knowledge. You'd think an assassin would be less likely to try anything if he or she knew that one man would not only block the shot instantly and completely, but also live to shoot back. However, knowing that might only encourage some nutcase to bring along a submachine gun instead. Or an explosive. There are no grenade-proof clothes on the market. Handguns are the likeliest threat, and our greatest fear, but they're also the easiest weapons to defend against with the greatest chance of success. 

This may sound totally grandiose, but I believe in my heart that, should I see a gun or a thrown missile, I would leap in the way without hesitation. So would any of my fellows. The devotion we all have for our leader, and the awe - not just as a President, but as a man - leaves no doubt, and no regret. 

And yet, we all pray that we won't have to prove that the hard way. 

When "Eagle" is not on the move outside in public view, he doesn't need a secret weapon inside "Crown" itself. So I'm a regular post-stander again, guarding the area immediately around him. It's a considerable relief, and in more ways than one; not only is the tension level more bearable, but I can be _myself_ again. (I do _not_ like hair dye, whether sandy brown for "Leanne" or Irish red for "Colleen." Sometimes I have to switch personae several times a week, which means I'm switching hair color constantly. The stuff doesn't just wash out.) Also, it's more entertaining overall. I see politicians, diplomats, generals... I glimpse the humor, the stress, the deal-making, the wrangling... I've already taken part in two trips to "Sierra," a stomach-dropping sensation in spades. I've been in the Sit Room before, of course - but never during a crisis. Even now I have to wait outside, since I'm not cleared for _military_ secrets, so I never witness the actual decisions made inside, but I see the repercussions in the news. I've got a whole new understanding of what The Man goes through every single day. What a tightrope act! The frustrations, the pressures, the exhaustion... It's a wonder he doesn't go mad. And yet he seems to thrive on the challenge. He's doing what he likes best in all the world: making a difference for others. 

I was right from the start that there's an inherent problem with a woman protecting a man. As a rule "Eagle" treats me like just one of the guys. I'm always careful to give him a bit more space, though. Of course, in a crisis modesty would have no meaning, but I'm not anxious to put that to the test. I do see him relax in civvies now and then. Five will get you ten it'll be a Notre Dame sweatshirt, even now in summer. It's a strange sensation on my part. It encourages us to relax around him a bit in turn, but that would be a mistake and a half. I've seen him shift into full executive mode at the drop of a hat. He's never completely off-duty... and he never will be as long as he lives here. 

You know, I'm getting the idea that knowing he'll be hounded by security for the rest of his life, even into retirement, only drives him to play harder as a result. I can see the point: if he has to put up with the worst aspects of his extraordinary position here, he might as well lighten the mood every chance possible. Like the time two of us were following him down the halls of the Residence late one night, in silence, and out of the blue he asked us how many bathrooms are in the White House. Like it was a really crucial piece of information. Of course, we could tell that he already had the answer. I have no idea where he got it from; I wouldn't put it past The Man to count each one personally if he couldn't find out any other way. Throwing bits of trivia at whoever happens to be within earshot is one of his more noteworthy (and patience-trying) quirks. He waited until both of us had shaken our heads before he gleefully announced that there were thirty-five. What I will do with that information, I can't guess. Spring it on some other unsuspecting victim? There are heaps of fun facts about this historical building, of which our President is a prime source. It does liven up our shifts at times. 

One thing for which I'm particularly glad is that I still see a fair bit of "Regina." She always has at least a smile for me, too. Granted, most of these sightings are on off-duty hours, but my night shifts in "Crown" are really no different from before. It's still the old problem of granting the First Couple privacy without being out of reach, just in case. The bedroom issue remains as delicate as ever. Their door is not quite soundproof - if they call for help, they have to be heard. Still, we make sure we stay a good few yards down the hall... 

It's a crying shame that, due to their mutual travels, they have to spend so much time apart. Seeing their relationship from _his_ side now has only assured me all the more of its abiding strength. As if I could possibly need further convincing after recent events! 

Ah, Brian... thinkin' of ya, hon... 

I'm also working almost hand in hand with Butterfield now, too... and let me say that there just can't be a tougher supervisor out there. I don't know how he landed his job, but he is simply perfect for it. An eye for detail and a drive for perfection; he would've made a killer drill sergeant. If _anyone_ can safeguard "Eagle," he can. Knowing he's so completely in charge helps me get over the shivers when I remember that I'm part of the team the whole government - indeed, the whole nation - is relying upon to keep our Commander-in-Chief safe. 

Okay, looks like the present Oval visitor is finally taking his leave. I don't know this one, but then I don't know most members of Congress unless they've been prominently _and_ recently in the news. I just don't have brain cells to spare for memorizing such minor details. Not like some Chief Executives I know. 

"Keep me posted, Leonard. I want to stay in the loop on this." Speaking of whom, he's seeing his guest almost right out into reception. It must have been quite a pleasant meeting. I could mention times when his visitors have practically fled the place. 

"I will, Mr. President. Thank you." 

This gent pauses to glance around. Reception here really does look a whole lot like any other waiting area in any other executive office. Even though we're talking about _the_ Executive and _the_ Office. Considering how easily people are intimidated by _him_ , we try not to add to the discomfort too much before they even get inside - so I'm usually the one posted here, the only agent prominently visible. Visitors can figure out who I am on their own, but they don't find me all that terrifying. I've learned not to take it personally. 

Now he's staring out the window. It's overcast and rather cool for July, especially with the central A/C on. "Chilly." 

"Paraguay," we all hear shouted from inside "Oscar." 

I will not laugh, I will _not laugh_... 

"Beg your pardon, sir?" 

The guy's look of total non-comprehension is just too much for me. 

"Eagle" pops back out here. "Chile and Paraguay are both countries in South America, of course," he explains, deadpan, but his eyes are sparkling. 

"Oh." Sheesh, this fruitcake _still_ doesn't get it! That's even funnier than the joke itself. 

Pause. "Are you all right, Colleen?" 

No, Mr. President, I am not. I'm directly outside the Oval Office, in full public view of your high-profile guests, I'm _supposed_ to be on duty to protect your life, and I am standing here with my eyes squeezed shut, my shoulders shaking and tears running down my face. Trying to breathe. _Trying_ not to laugh. 


	16. I, Lifesaver 16

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 16 ~ 

August 2001 

The almost mythical Camp David. It's not quite as homey or as personal as "Horseradish" in Manchester, but "Cactus" is a close second, and a lot nearer to DC. And even more secure. If we're signing international peace accords here, it had _better_ be! 

Tonight, however, is about a search for peace of a much more fundamental nature. I don't know who wrung the promise out of him - "Dexter" or "Regina" herself - but "Eagle" finally agreed to take a weekend off. We've got a prize President here, and we're not about to let anything harm him... not even his own stubborn dedication. 

By my watch, he and "Dexter" are into their third hour of moonlight strolling. What these two old friends have to talk about all this time I can't imagine, but I sure hope it isn't business. They _both_ came here to relax. The White House Chief of Staff can't be under any less strain than the Chief Executive himself. At least I've heard a few bouts of laughter. 

How much they can _really_ relax with bodyguards still following them around is another question. We do try to be extra-subtle here: in black, standing off a few dozen yards, making as little sound as possible. Maybe they've managed to forget that five men and one woman have been keeping them inside a large, secure circle all this time. 

It really is pleasant to wander the silent fields and glades on a warm summer night, with only the moon and a few banks of high-power floodlights to light one's path... but the constant watchfulness takes away the shine after awhile. I'll be glad when these two pack it in. 

At last... they're heading back. We might actually be locked down by midnight. 

The main building is less than fifteen minutes away in a straight line at a normal walking pace, but they're not in any hurry at all. I can't blame them. When was the last time either of them had so much freedom - 

A sudden, completely unexpected, completely _wrong_ sound of static hisses into my ear. 

_ALERT._ Our comm. system has been - 

A shout off to my left: _"Jamming signal!"_

Somehow, someone has shut down the Secret Service communications network. 

Holy - we've lost our all-important link to "Cactus" HQ, and to each other! 

That's supposed to be impossible. 

Rule one: _nothing_ is impossible. We've trained for this crisis as well. All six of us sweep in to surround "Eagle" at once, weapons out. 

We're trapped in the open, in full view, for all intents and purposes we're alone - _and we're under attack!_

Butterfield is instantly in control. "Bunker two's closest!" He tries to keep his voice down; we may all too easily be observed or monitored at this very moment. _"Go!"_ And before The Man can turn around, he's being hustled away at a run, in the center of a tight huddle. Not to the highly visible main building, but to a much more secure and defensible location. 

As it happens, I'm tail end Charlie. If anyone's going to get hit... 

Something makes me glance back - and we're leaving "Dexter" behind, alone. 

Due to his intimate military knowledge and executive confidence, Leo McGarry has his own detail whenever he leaves "Crown." But not here and now, inside this armed Camp. 

Is there no leisure, no safety to be had _anywhere?_

Screw the philosophy! I have to make a decision, _fast_. I can stay with my boss, my fellows and my protectee, as I certainly should. 

Or... 

For mercy's sake, I'm assigned to the _President!_ He _has_ to come first! 

But "Eagle" has five other agents all over him right now. "Dexter" has none. 

Decision made, in far less time than it takes to tell. I break off and grab my _new_ protectee by the arm before he can choose his own course. " _This_ way!" 

To his credit, he obeys at once as I pull him in the opposite direction. He should be protected separately from "Eagle," anyway. To lose either would be a hideous blow; don't even _think_ about us losing both. I've got to get him someplace safe and secret. 

First priority: get out of _sight_. That bright moon and those huge floodlights not far off are our greatest danger at the moment. At least the ground is fairly level, but these multiple light sources make things very uncertain. We race to the nearest copse of trees, expecting an ominous shape to spring out at any second... or red muzzle-flashes to greet us in mid-stride... 

_Made it._ I shove "Dexter" down behind some thick foliage and throw myself prone beside him, pistol ready. We're invisible. For several seconds, all I can hear is our rapid breathing. And the staccato beat of my accelerated pulse, and the deadly hiss in my ear. 

Nothing else. No hint of pursuit nearby. No sound of invasion in the distance. 

But a large and serious threat is definitely out there. 

We knew all along that someone might try something here. "Cactus" is _very_ well-defended - but it's still easier to strike at POTUS here than in the White House. 

I can't see a thing. Cautiously, I rise to a crouch and peer through the leaves. No sign of any movement anywhere. "Eagle" and friends have long since disappeared into the trees on the far side of the meadow. 

I don't know where he is! _No one_ does, except the few men actually with him! How do we know he's safe? What if they've run right into an ambush? 

How can we protect him if we can't contact each other? 

I have never felt so vulnerable in my life! Without the radios - 

This is a lot like that time I thought I was protecting "Regina" from an assault, and it turned out to be an innocent gas leak. There was the same fear of being alone, the same desperation to defend my protectee at all costs against what I figured had to be a much larger force. 

This is no accident. There _is_ an unknown enemy force, and it's _close_. 

" _What_ is going on?" "Dexter" whispers. I can feel him looming over my shoulder. 

"Stay down!" His clothes are lighter in color than mine, thus more visible. "Our comm. signal is being jammed. Someone's launching an open assault on the Camp." 

"God..." He's checking all around us despite my order to lay low. I remember now that he fought in Vietnam; this situation must be frighteningly familiar to him. 

Or - maybe the old battle instincts are rising to the fore. That can only help us both. 

"Don't worry, sir. We've got contingencies in place for this sort of thing." I hope I sound more confident than I feel. We _do_ , but this is the _worst-case_ scenario! 

"Where's the President?" Good; he's still whispering, no matter how vital that question. 

I dare not take my eyes off the field to look at him. "I have no idea. And _you_ have no idea how much that scares me." 

His reply verges on a growl. "Yes. I do." 

Of _course_ he does. He's devoted the last four years of his life to protecting Jed Bartlet as well, in one fashion or another. 

"Sorry. They're taking him to a secure bunker. You and I will head for a different one." 

"And just maybe _one_ of our two groups will make it." 

"My prayer exactly." I'm still panning the open with my gunsights. Nothing - yet. 

"Then let's make sure _we_ draw the fire." 

This time I turn to meet his eye. He doesn't flinch, and there wasn't the slightest quaver or uncertainty in his voice. 

If we're spotted and shot at, it'll focus all hostile attention here... thus giving "Eagle" detail more time to get him to safety, as well as a warning of what area to avoid. 

But I'm not responsible for "Eagle" right now; I have to look after his right-hand man instead. I took this duty upon myself. "Dexter" _must_ be protected. He's vital to the running of the White House and the whole Bartlet administration. 

On the other hand, it's the duty of _both_ of us to protect the President. 

_Any way we can._

"Right on." I flatter myself that my voice doesn't quaver, either. 

Warily, I stand. I'm in shadow, and wearing black. Still, motion is motion. If anyone _besides_ our border brigade has radar... or night-vision... or heat detection... 

"Dexter" rises as well. We trade one sober nod. Soldiers going into combat. I take a fistful of jacket near his right shoulder with my left hand. He grasps my left sleeve with his right hand, so that we can follow each other's movements. And together we step out of our cover. 

Every instinct of mine is screaming to keep to the trees. Their dark shadows will hide us from unfriendly eyes. Their thick trunks will shelter us from gunfire. 

But we can't get to bunker one without risking the open, anyway. And if someone _has_ to come under the gun... well, better us than _another_ detail I could mention. 

Still no sound of approach. Either the assault is _very_ stealthy, or else it hasn't advanced this far yet. But any force able to knock out our radios is professional, and lethal. 

Take no chances. I must assume that such experts are nearby, and searching. We _have_ to move, to draw them towards us and away from... 

If we can make it to our bunker at a slow pace, then surely "Eagle" will have made it to his well within the same time frame. But if I hear one shot -! 

If that shot is aimed at _us_ , I might not hear it at all. 

My next step could be my last... 

How much time has elapsed since the jamming began? Surely no more than two minutes; three at the most. I think. 

Are commandos sprinting towards us _right now?_

And _where_ is our backup? But of course _they_ don't know where we are, either! 

"Dexter" is watching all directions, just as I am. "Stay to the right of that grove up ahead," he mutters. "Shelter _and_ a decoy from the house." 

His command of strategy is impressive. If we do get caught in a firefight, then the longer we can hold out the more time we can buy, and the more people will hear it and be diverted - either to our aid, or to our destruction. Also, that clump of forest is well to the right of us, bunker one _and_ the main building - not on a direct line, so anyone trying to track us won't guess where we're headed. Besides, we don't want to lead attackers to the house itself, where other staffers will be holed up by now and just waiting for this to be over... one way or another. 

It's a good plan for others' sake, but it doesn't offer any guarantee that we two will live through it. 

From his tone and his demeanor, I can tell "Dexter" knows that as well. 

This is surreal. We're walking silently through the night, fully visible now, with only one gun between us, expecting trouble with every heartbeat. Any hint of motion... 

"Watch for friendly fire," my companion warns softly. I nod; I've already thought of that. By now every agent and law enforcement officer in the county will be screaming in to help. We don't want to be shooting each other! But without the radios, how can we tell who's on our side and who's not? 

This is definitely a war, such as I've never dreamed of. Do all soldiers feel such terror? Who do you dare trust? How can you hope to survive? Right now all that's keeping me fully grounded is the solid support and the steady calm of the man with me. 

Funny; I'm supposed to be protecting _him_. 

War service aside, he's not _security_ -trained... but I've just been hit by a stunning realization. Leo McGarry must have expected such a fate all along: that, both as Chief of Staff and as personal friend to the President, he might need to leap in front of the bullet himself. 

And he has no hesitation whatsoever about doing so. 

This is more than patriotism; this is friendship such as I've never seen before in my life. 

A person couldn't ask to die in better company. 

_Gunfire!_ We both whip around. It's not very close - but sound carries far at night, and it's a pretty brisk exchange. 

All the possibilities...! 

I'm trying to evaluate from the echoes. "Rifles and pistols. Some are definitely our make." The weapons for the Secret Service are unique. They have to be. 

"About a half-mile away." "Dexter" is listening hard, too. 

That sounds right. "They're on our perimeter." The forces of good and evil have met head to head. Any possible illusion of a simple mechanical breakdown has been shredded for good. No one will feel inclined to hold their fire any longer. 

However, returning fire gives away your position... 

Keep moving. We can't do anything for whoever's engaged at that hot spot. 

Infiltrators will also be less likely to creep now, and more likely to charge. 

If any presence I detect is heading towards the battle yonder, it's most likely on our side. If it's aiming for the house... not. 

If _not_ , then I know what I'll have to do. 

So does "Dexter;" I can feel it. His grip on my arm is firm and bracing. 

This is a new experience for me in many ways. Quite aside from the fact that we're deliberately setting ourselves up as clay pigeons, I have never before had a protectee who could stand equally with me in a crisis. He's not armed, but I know he's got my back. 

Then again, I've never been in a crisis like _this_. 

The fact that he _has_ seen this kind of action before, and knows how to deal with it, is hugely reassuring. 

Okay, we're skirting the last tree stand. There's only open grass left between us and that bunker haven. If anyone spots _us_ , I'll know at once whether it's friend or foe. A foe will shoot first and ask questions later. 

Wait a sec... I stop in surprise. The hiss in my ear - is gone. 

"Dexter" leans close. "What?" 

"The jamming - I think it's over." 

The next question is, who's now in charge of that frequency? If our enemies manage to take over the signal, they can wreak no small amount of confusion. 

"Cactus to all units. Channel secure; theta nine two orange." 

That's the correct clearance code! "We're back in contact!" 

"Dexter" exhales. Yet I know he's still watching. After that initial breakdown, invaders could easily be anywhere... and at this moment I'm being distracted by the very communications that we so need. That we missed so badly. 

"Eagle detail, report." 

Oh please, oh _please..._

"Eagle is secure in bunker two. Omega three seven blue." 

Okay, I'm ready to fall over now. "The President is safe." 

This time my protectee's sigh is gusty with relief. I can feel the fear that he refused to show just flood out of him. 

"Dexter detail, report." 

I keep it soft; we're still in the open... "Dexter is well." Technically he's not secure _yet._ "En route to bunker one. Omicron two six yellow." 

The rest of the reports confirm that all other civilians are unhurt, that the security grid itself is still fully operational, that our Service border patrol has the attacking force cornered, and that the local constabulary is already arriving. But we still need to batten down until it's been confirmed that no intruder has penetrated the grounds. I lead "Dexter" towards our destination again... and I'm not relaxing completely or putting my weapon away until we're locked inside. 

At least we don't have to consider a suicide mission any longer. "Eagle" is secure. We're fully justified in preserving our own lives again. 

What a scare this has been. For the longest time nobody knew just what was happening, or where "Eagle" was and whether he was safe. 

Same for The Man's second-in-command, of course. In fact, HQ was probably no less worried about _him_ , since he didn't have an assigned detail here in the first place. They had no way of knowing if he'd been included with "Eagle" or missed in the scramble. 

Even so, I bet I'll catch a lot of flak over leaving my assigned protectee. The _President_ , no less. He has to come first. 

But in my work you need to stand by your instincts. I'll accept the judgment. 

"Dexter" and I are still holding each other's sleeve, just in case. Now his hand tightens briefly on my arm. "By the way, thanks." 

It was my job... and yet, it wasn't. "I doubt I'll be thanked by my boss," I can't help but murmur aloud. I broke one _major_ rule tonight - and not for the first time at that. 

"Maybe not, but I know you will be by the President." He's under no false modesty as to how much his boss relies on him. I shudder to think what "Eagle" had to say to his detail when he looked around inside the safety of that bunker and didn't find his best friend anyplace. 

"Either way, I'll back you up." 

I'm grinning now. I have no doubt he would... again. 

* * *

August 2001 

To me right now, the closed door to the office of the Agent in Charge of White House Security has taken on all the aspects of a stone staircase leading down to a medieval dungeon. 

I take a deep breath. No sense in prolonging the agony - or the punishment. 

My boss is seated behind his desk, leafing through a file, as unsmiling as ever. In fact, he looks grimmer than ever. Something I did? 

_Oh,_ yeah. 

"Come in, Reilly." That is not an invitation. I obey, walking over to stand before him. Shoulders back, feet planted, hands clasped behind, eyes on the wall over his head. Military "at ease," all the way - when at ease is the _last_ thing I am. 

If he thinks I'm deliberately overdoing this, Butterfield chooses not to comment. "So." He's definitely in full supervisor mode. "Why don't we start at the beginning." 

It's not as though he hasn't already heard the basic scenario by now. 

"Yes, sir." I take a deep breath. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth... "My husband and I were walking home last night, after supper at a restaurant not far from our apartment. We had maybe four blocks still to go, when this guy passed us on the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction - and then suddenly he turned and shoved a revolver into Brian's back." 

I pause, remembering my fear, and my rage, far too clearly. 

"Go on." 

"Well... his first mistake was picking the wrong pair to mug. His second mistake was going for the person he _thought_ was the more dangerous of the two." I can feel my teeth baring in a predatory snarl. "So I showed him the error of his ways. He wasn't expecting a thing from _me_. I had no trouble laying him out on the pavement." 

I have to pause again. My boss says nothing. 

"But he held onto his gun, where nine out of ten would have dropped it in the tumble. And even after that demo of mine he stupidly tried to retaliate. That was his _third_ mistake." The term _three strikes_ seems to echo in this underground room. "So I drew - and shot him." 

Silence. No reaction at all from my listener; not even a twitch. I'm struggling not to twitch myself. 

"I did try not to hit him _too_ critically." 

"But he died in hospital that night." 

Those words slice through my soul. I repress a shudder. 

"That's the first time I've killed anyone in my life. In fact, that was the first time I've even fired on someone since I started protection duty." I still can't look Butterfield in the eye. 

Silence. 

"But I'm not sorry. _No one_ is going to hurt my husband if I can in any way prevent it." 

I believe that, and I stand by it... and yet I feel positively ill. Not just because of my actions, but because of the consequences. I dread the thought of everyone talking about it: my colleagues, the White House staff, the press... the First Family... 

What will this do for both the Department _and_ the President, if someone on his detail is viewed by the public as a killer? And a killer who will, of course, dodge even the most cursory investigation due to her high connections. 

Then there's the whole issue of gun control. Theoretically, I have no genuine need to be armed while I'm off-duty. Not with our intensive hand-to-hand combat training. 

At least Brian got over his scare quickly. In fact, he seemed proud rather than annoyed that he had to be defended by his wife. Certainly he was _relieved_. Better to suffer a sting to one's masculine pride than be robbed... and maybe killed in the process. 

My boss still doesn't move. This accusing silence is unbearable. 

My shoulders slump. It's like I'm carrying a terrible weight. "I'd rather be mugged than kill someone. But I'd rather kill a mugger than let someone I love be harmed." 

The words sound so hollow, somehow. Every Service agent is taught the most efficient ways to kill a person. We have to be prepared to use that knowledge at any moment in our job. But despite our reputation, and our critical work, it's _very_ rare that any of us ever have to. 

Beside, there's a huge difference between a cardboard target... and a fellow agent in a training exercise... and a presidential assassin... and a simple cut-purse... 

And when I'm off-duty, not expecting trouble... 

"So now you have to face the emotional burden of taking a human life." Butterfield doesn't break his uncanny stillness, but at least his words are a bit kinder. "Just like any other law enforcement officer." 

A burden it is - especially for a Christian. _Do unto others..._

I have the right to defend myself, and those in my care. It's my job, after all... 

But did I have to _kill_ him? If only I'd aimed just a bit wider... 

Or would he then have been able to pull trigger himself? For Brian's sake... 

Lord, did I do the right thing? 

I wonder who he was, really. What childhood he knew, what dreams he had, what anger or despair drove him to a life of petty crime. Did anyone else love him? 

Whatever he did, he deserved a chance to reform. Now, thanks to me, that chance is gone forever. 

On the other hand, how many _more_ people might he have robbed before he could be stopped - one way or another? How many might he have _killed?_

My boss is measuring me very deliberately. "The question I now have for you is: would you act as swiftly and decisively to protect a stranger?" 

I see where he's going with this. Of course the Bartlets aren't strangers any more, and I've developed a genuine affection for them that goes well beyond my patriotic duty. For their sake I _know_ I wouldn't hesitate. But what about _future_ assignments? 

My infiltration days were not spent in a haze of gunsmoke and falling bodies. That's movie fodder. I wanted to expose and arrest the counterfeiters, not wipe them out. I fought them with strategy, with legal evidence - with my brain. Over four years and dozens of cases I did get into a few fights, and I did pull off a few rounds ... I've seen people die before, and die violently. But no one ever died by _my_ hand. I've always shot to disarm only. 

If another emergency should arise, will I be as prepared to shoot at a human again? Will I even be _able_ to do so? I've seen the full scale of damage that I personally can inflict on another. Will I hesitate just too long as a result? Any delay or waver in my aim can allow a gunman to shoot back. Any indecision on my part can be _fatal_. 

Or, conversely, will this new knowledge inure me? Did I have to cross that terminal line in order to digest the reality and accept it? Will I grow _comfortable_ with this level of force? Will I become murderously _un_ hesitating - like the killer I sympathize with right now? 

Will I find it easier to pull the trigger next time... or harder? 

I do _not_ want to become trigger-happy, unfeeling towards the pain of my adversaries, willing to kill rather than wound, accustomed to doling out violence without a second thought. Still, for the sake of my protectees, whoever they may be, I can't shrink away from the fact that one day I might have to kill again, for _them_. 

Practice simulations are just that: practice. No amount of realism is enough. They can't truly prepare you for the genuine, gut-wrenching decision. 

Butterfield is just watching me, waiting for all of these ideas to come and go. I can't read his expression at all. But I can guess at his thoughts. No matter how I may react in the future, it's my actions in the past that have to be addressed. I draw myself up again. 

"Sir, I fully expect to be reprimanded. And taken off Eagle detail. If only for the sake of appearances. Too much is riding on our reputation to do our job effectively." 

He cocks an eyebrow. "Appearance? Like _that's_ a sufficient reason." 

What... that doesn't strike me as a lead-in to a bawling-out... 

"You reacted correctly and appropriately for a Secret Service agent in a crisis. It was just that poor sap's back luck." 

Do I dare breathe again...? 

Butterfield calmly closes the file in front of him. My file. "Eagle will have to be briefed, of course, and there _might_ be an investigation... but I don't foresee any repercussions. You've proven - not for the first time - that you can handle a situation properly and instantaneously." 

A reprieve... 

_I'm free_... 

Good thing my muscles are all still locked into place here, or else I'd just melt into a puddle of pure, unadulterated relief. 

However, none of this can answer the question that continues to burn my brain: will I now be a better bodyguard... or a worse one? Will I become too hesitant - or too _un_ hesitating - for safety's sake? 

Guess I'll just have to watch and see. And pray. And do my best to channel the best factors of _both_ arguments. 

The next thought that occurs to me is that my boss seems to be spending a lot of his time these days reassuring me that I haven't screwed up as badly as I'm convinced I have. 

Maybe it's safe to believe that I'm not a bad hand at my job after all. 

_Maybe._ Just so long as I don't get overconfident... 


	17. I, Lifesaver 17

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 17 ~ 

September 2001 

One might think, with all the security at "Crown's" every entrance, not to mention the main gate, and never mind the surrounding fences, that post-standers in the halls are just a bit unnecessary. And yet you'll find dark-suited Service agents, uniformed guards and/or decorated military officers almost everywhere you look. 

Call us paranoid, but there is always the knowledge that trouble can flare up _anyplace_ \- even inside the world's most heavily defended house. A fake ID that fooled the door wardens? A fire? Someone suddenly erupting into a mental breakdown? A plane falling from the sky? 

End result: there are never less than four agents within immediate reach of "Eagle" at all times, even inside his own home. Even inside his prestigious office. 

All I can say is, thank God _I'm_ not President. Not only would I be a very poor hand at politics, but I wouldn't be able to endure this fishbowl life. 

"Eagle" has demonstrated an amazing endurance and a fine talent for both. 

Well... here's "Regina." I'd been informed that she was coming for an afternoon visit. 

She doesn't take to this life quite so naturally, but she's still wonderfully good at it. 

It's always great to see her, even though I feel a small pang whenever I see her new bodyguard. Not because I worry that Yvonne can't do a good job. It's the sensation anyone gets when a former position that you enjoyed holding is eventually filled by someone else. 

"How are you, Colleen?" Oh, goody; this is one of those days when "Regina" is not so pressed for time that she can't pause for a word or two. 

Another bonus: inside the White House, while just standing around, I'm _myself_ again. 

"Very well, Dr. Bartlet, thank you." We've been over the whole "Doctor" thing before. Now that I see less of her, I'm in greater danger of forgetting. 

Normally, she goes through reception like everyone else. Today she's decided on the hall entrance instead. I wonder why. 

Because this is where _I'm_ standing? 

"And Brian?" Now that is sweet of her to ask. 

I doubt she has time for my usual outburst of rhapsody. Better stick to humor. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'm keeping him on a short leash." 

"Works for me, too." She lets loose one of her beaming smiles. "I really am glad that I have such a reliable woman to keep an eye on my husband." And she leaves me to fight my laughter as I watch her enter the Oval. 

So far there hasn't been one whisper in the media about the President's new female staff member, who never seems to be all that far from him in public. I'd just as soon the press didn't overhear any of these light-hearted asides by the First Lady, thanks. It's fantastic sometimes how people can interpret the same words in so many different - 

_// BZZZZT //_

_ALERT._ Hell - that's the _Oval buzzer!_ "Eagle" is signaling for help _NOW!_

Instantly I've drawn my weapon. About-face, two steps forward as fast as I can, then my right foot slams into the door-plate. These doors are never locked, but I can't take _any_ chances on being slowed down. The latch rips free, the portal crashes open, and I charge inside. 

At least three more agents will be right on my heels, but I'm first. It's all up to me. 

I'm also in the greatest danger. An unknown threat is in the Oval Office itself. 

And so is the First Couple! 

Brake hard just inside. Sweep the room. Eliminate any menace _at once._

Someone is behind that desk, and it's not "Eagle." 

No, _wait_ \- it's "Regina." 

Thank God I waited that extra second to make sure! 

Sweep again. There _must_ be danger here! 

No... there's no one else. Only them. 

Pounding feet dash up behind me, without doubt similarly armed and determined. 

She's sitting in that leather chair, facing us. Very still. Both hands raised to shoulder level, palms out in classic surrender. She looks genuinely afraid. 

"Eagle" is standing beside her, facing us. Very still. Both hands held at chest level, palms out in a pacifying gesture. He looks genuinely worried. 

What happened? Why did they call for help? What caused this fear? 

"It's all right." The Man keeps his voice calm. "It's just us." 

I sweep the room once more. If he had to use that emergency signal, for _any_ reason -! 

"It was a false alarm." 

False alarm... 

I have to wait another few hammering heartbeats, so that the quiet remains unbroken and he doesn't retract his statement, before I can bring myself to believe it. 

False alarm... Then there's no threat to them after all. 

WHEW... 

I'm gasping here. I feel positively light-headed. What a _relief..._

Oh; now I know the _real_ reason why they both look so apprehensive. There's nothing lady-like about my stance, and everything dangerous. I'm in a fighter's crouch, feet braced, both hands extended, aiming a loaded pistol at my nation's leader and his wife. 

My muscles are clenched so tight that it actually hurts to let go. Slowly, I manage to straighten. I'm still breathing hard after that sudden, frantic exertion and the overwhelming, desperate fear that something had happened to them _right here_. 

_"Oscar! Report!"_ Ouch; that was loud. The command post sounds pretty anxious, too. Of course, the buzzer rings down there as well as right outside. 

I arrived first; it's my place to call in. I turn to the four other guys clustered behind me, and Yvonne as well. We're all at ease now, guns lowered but still in hand. You just can't stand down from that level of urgency in a moment. 

"Oscar secure, Eagle and Regina safe. Confirm Reilly, epsilon kappa zero." 

I swear, I can hear a universal sigh of relief from every single agent with a microphone, _anywhere_. I can't be imagining it. 

Only now does the First Couple dare to move as well. "Regina" relaxes and leans back in that chair, and _her_ sigh carries the length of this oval chamber. 

This is the second time I've scared her half to death. Third time's the charm? 

"Eagle" lowers his hands and steps out from behind the desk. "I suppose we should explain." He sounds casual, as though unaware of the sheer tension that just erupted and has yet to totally dissipate. But the look between him and his wife says otherwise. 

I'm still panting a bit, but at least I've regained enough presence of mind to put away my firearm and indicate that my colleagues may go. Everyone doesn't have to hear this, and they should resume their positions in the halls. Ready for the _next_ alarm. 

Once the door closes again, scraping unevenly into place, I slump against it. Man... I really do feel quite weak. For one shattered instant, I was convinced that both Bartlets were in immediate peril of their lives - and that, as the first agent on the scene, so was I. 

And then I came within half an inch of killing them myself. 

"Colleen, I think you'd better sit down for a minute." 

It looks like "Regina" isn't so shaken herself that those medical instincts aren't at hand. I obey automatically. My legs feel like they're made of wood and about to buckle underneath me. At least I make it to the nearest sofa. "Eagle" is already there with a glass of water. 

Later, I must remember to cherish this memory of being waited on by the Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful nation on earth. 

Imagine how _they_ must've felt in that first tense second. At the Oval alarm, we act the fastest and assume the worst. They would've had only enough time to glance at each other in cold understanding and then turn to face the armed invasion about to descend - knowing that in another heartbeat they'd be on the wrong end of several gun sights and praying that no one would overreact. What a way to live your life! 

"Sir... ma'am... I apologize. I'm supposed to protect you - not _endanger_ you." 

"I've commented on your reflexes before." The First Lady is smiling at that recollection. I can't help but do the same. 

"Well, your reflexes sure did a number on my door." The Man is surveying the splintered wood, and pretending to sound peeved. "Now I'll have to get that frame refinished." 

I can feel myself blushing in embarrassment. "Send me the bill, sir." 

"Oh, never mind that. If solid walls can't keep you from flying to our defense, I don't think we have any grounds for complaint." He strolls back over to stand beside his wife, hands now in pockets, then revolves towards me again. Uh-oh; the amusement factor has well and truly dimmed. "Nice display of self-control, too, by the way." 

I have to close my eyes for a moment. I came _so close_ to pulling the trigger. And even if I'd managed to redirect my aim at the last possible instant, the windows behind that executive desk are bulletproof. Either the slug would have lodged there - or else it would have ricocheted back into the room - 

A terrifying thought: that the world's elite law enforcement agents are so well-trained that we just might be _too_ well-trained. Never mind me and my _personal_ concerns. 

"So this is what happens when the President gallantly offers his wife the best seat in the House." "Regina" is clearly determined to make light of the whole matter. Which is just fine by me. "Of course his wife managed to forget all about a certain secret panel under the desk - until _after_ she bumped it with her knee." 

Yup. As soon as I knew it was a false alarm, I figured something like that had happened. I'd been told about the time "Eagle" tripped it himself, within the first week of his term. After _that_ scare, the Service was confident he wouldn't make the same mistake again... and normally no one else ever sits in that chair. 

I think I'm almost back to normal now. 

"Well, Mr. President. If I may voice an opinion... I rather hope that you will be a bit less liberal with the executive seating arrangements around here in the future. Then maybe _none_ of us will have to go through this again." 

The operative word there being "almost." 

* * *

September 2001 

Come on, girl. It's not like you haven't gone undercover before. 

True. However, if my cover had been blown in the past, it would only have been my life. Here, it might be the President. 

Okay, I'm getting unnecessarily dramatic. Most counterfeiters wouldn't hesitate to kill an exposed spy, since to them it's self-defense. A political assassin - or a psychopath - already has murder in mind; anyone between them and their target must be removed, regardless of their occupation. More than a good enough reason for me to give myself away. So Butterfield will then have to get someone else for "Eagle's" secret weapon. Cheap at twice the price. 

Focus. Rein in that imagination. We're indoors, the entire hotel has long since been secured, and the guests are very supportive about what "Eagle" has to say. 

I've found a good vantage spot at the edge of the stage. So have several other agents. Our purpose is exactly the same, even if our methods aren't. Every one of them radiates watchfulness and genuine menace. Me, I'm just one more background staffer, listening to my boss speak and jotting notes. I keep my head down and my pen moving. Unless they can see otherwise, the vast majority of people automatically assumes that a person is looking only in the direction his or her head is actually aimed. In truth I'm peering constantly left and right. I suppose I should thank these dratted spectacles for the extra camouflage. 

But I do walk away with some fierce eyestrain at times... 

Ironically, the hardest part about this role is not my surreptitious surveillance, but staying clear of the rest of the accompanying staff - the senior members in particular. They're a close-knit group, and they're sharp like nobody's business. They always hover near "Eagle" to hear his instructions or offer their own advice. And, just to make this more interesting, two of them know "Colleen" personally. I hope and pray that no real curiosity develops before I've been around long enough to be accepted as "one of the gang." We don't want to complicate things further by bringing more people on board, even people so obviously trustworthy. But if anyone's going to openly wonder about this newbie "Leanne," for _any_ reason... 

Head down. Mouth shut. Eyes peeled. 

I'm glad there's no meal included in _this_ event. For me these days, dinners get more than a little awkward. I can't just relax and chow down with the rest of the support staff that I supposedly belong to; that's totally contrary to my job. But of course, "Leanne" would be expected to enjoy a break from jotting her endless notations. So I have to vanish - as though to the washroom, or the phone. Something. No one really knows me; no one works "with" me; no one is actually looking for me or expecting me to join them. If anyone does ask, I'm ready to pretend that I was around the whole time, at a different table, savoring the main course just as they were. People can be very accepting when their suspicions are not aroused. 

One blessing in my favor is the number of both senior _and_ support staff that follow The Man everywhere. One more silent shadow is easy to miss, even by the other shadows that also habitually trail in his wake. Here's hoping no one thinks anything strange about seeing Colleen on duty around the White House, but not _away_ from the White House, and Leanne doing her stenography only when we _are_ on outside trips... 

"Eagle" is in top form tonight. I've _got_ to tune out what he says; I don't need that distraction on top of everything else. The frequent bursts of applause almost make me wince. Not only are they loud enough to drown out anything less than a scream from my earpiece, but they can mask a lot of other sounds as well - and far more ominous sounds at that. And they're sustained. Damn, why does my protectee have to be so popular? 

_// bump //_ "Oops! Sorry." 

Easy; just an accidental collision. No panic. 

Yeep - of all people, it _has_ to be "Flamingo." 

Accent, remember the _accent_ ; she knows "Colleen" too well. A gentle Texan drawl. It _used_ to come naturally to me. 

"Sorry, Ms. Cregg." I duck my head carefully, like any other new junior staffer would around the very prominent Press Secretary. 

"Flamingo" recovers just as quickly. "It's okay; my fault." She turns away. 

_Whew..._

She turns _back_. "Wait a min -" 

Damn! I can guess at the thoughts behind that frown. I've got to shush her somehow, fast - 

"CJ." 

Oh, God bless "Batman." He picked up on the situation at once. 

"Yeah, Charlie?" 

"Can I run something past you?" He never so much as glances at me, which is exactly right. He just politely invites "Flamingo" to join him, hand extended, palm up, as he strolls past us both. I swear, only a physical pull on her arm could be more effective. How much do you want to bet he learned that move by watching "Eagle" at work? 

I turn my head slightly away, as though already forgetting the whole incident, but I catch the parting glance she throws my way. I can't guess what topic that young man will broach to distract her; she's well and truly suspicious now. Still, I owe him a life debt. 

I just have to make sure I steer clear of her for the next few days, until those suspicions have had time to be forgotten. 

Good thing Butterfield decided that someone else on the staff should be aware of my role. I really _do_ need to be protected! But then, for every extra person who knows, the likelihood of this slipping out in an incautious moment triples. And the whole point to a secret weapon is to be secret. If I'm not treated just like every other staffer, an observant assassin will notice. We can't expect all of these administrators to act convincingly; we shouldn't ask it of them anyway. If it got to that stage, certainly "Leanne" would have to retire. In fact, we might need to ditch the whole concept and go with increased _visible_ security. That won't do "Eagle" any favors in an election year. 

The fine art of politics is not my concern. The Secret Service remains studiously neutral. So long as a crowd doesn't physically threaten our protectee, they can shout any undesirable slogan they like. We won't deny their constitutional right of expression, just because they're in political opposition to the person currently under our security umbrella. 

Fortunately, in this case the method we've adopted to protect our leader agrees with both our need for security and his need for popularity. He really does look less smothered with bodyguards than usual. After the whole MS upheaval, appearing to show more trust in the people is imperative if "Eagle" hopes to repair some of the inevitable damage to his political image. 

Key word: _appearing_. Forget his career: we're concerned about his _life_. 

Now, it's not exactly as though he's living a deception - again. If you ask me, all politics is founded on deception _and_ illusion. No, this is the compromise between two intractable positions: freedom and safety. He honestly _wants_ to trust them. We simply can't. 

Frankly, the role of "Leanne" is both fun and irritating. Undercover work almost always is. You have to submerge yourself into the other persona, until it becomes second nature. One out-of-character moment can ruin months of work and risk scores of lives. I've seen it happen in other arenas. There's a definite thrill to subterfuge... but that thrill comes mostly from the very real danger involved. 

Okay, The Man's all done. Whoa; between his personality and his speechwriters he really wowed them - he's got a standing ovation. That must be a politician's favorite sight, but it's among the _least_ favorite to a bodyguard. Noise plus movement equals _opportunity_. 

Finally; he's heading out. Of course there will be lots of handshakes on the way. That's something else the Service doesn't like much at all. Here is where we _have_ to play the odds, no matter how much we hate it. By far, most people are well-wishers who would never harm him - but there only has to be one person in the crowd who managed to sneak something past the metal detectors... or who's crazy enough to use bare fists. Any such move would be stopped in seconds, but I still keep hoping it never happens. 

And so "Eagle" departs, the central blazing sun with his system of satellites all revolving around and being drawn inexorably after him. I fall into step right behind. His senior staffers have their cell phones out already, or are chatting happily with him on what a success this was, or are arguing between themselves as to what could've been written better. Me, I scan the press of bodies on all sides, and try not to _imagine_ that I'm glimpsing a weapon in every hand - 

"Hey, there." 

What the -? It's "Princeton"... and he's talking to _me_. 

"Leanne, right? Hi." He extends his hand. "I see you take a lot of notes every time we're out, and I've been meaning to talk to you for ages." 

Why would he want to talk to me? "I'm sorry, Mr. Seaborn, I don't..." 

"It's okay; it's Sam." Boy, I must be doing a really good "Leanne" job tonight if he thinks I'm _that_ intimidated by the boyishly handsome Deputy Communications Director. "Well, I'm a writer, too. I'm just naturally interested in what you have to say about the President." 

Oh, hell. This is a problem. I don't have _anything_ to say, because I'm not writing anything about "Eagle" at all. My notes - the ones that aren't faked - are on security perceptions. If "Princeton" gets one good look at my clipboard... and for all his speechwriting skills and his political smarts, he couldn't be trusted to keep a secret like this and act it out as well. 

This we never anticipated. Help, somebody... 

"Sam! There you are!" 

_Saved!_ And by "Flamingo" herself. After my close call with her earlier, this is nicely ironic. 

"What's up, CJ?" 

"Get over here. I need your expertise." 

He obeys, naturally. No man can resist the call of the ego. "Flamingo" leads him away... 

... and as they mingle with their comrades, she tosses me - a wink. 

_She knows._ "Batman" must have had to tell her the truth after all; she's just too sharp to be fooled by a disguise or diverted by subterfuge. 

And the first thing she does is run interference for me in turn. Even after we deliberately kept her in the dark! What a woman. 

Also a nice bit of serendipity, after my past efforts to defend _her_. 

I'll have to tell Butterfield that she's now in on it, of course. But CJ puts up a front before the press every day; she can only be an asset to _our_ performance here. 

I've also stumbled upon a weak spot in my cover, a flaw that we've fortunately been granted time to repair. In the future I must have with me a convincing portfolio on the President's speeches... in case "Princeton" or anyone else ever asks me again. 


	18. I, Lifesaver 18

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 18 ~ 

September 2001 

I so love being aboard "Angel" when she's _officially_ "Air Force One." It almost makes up for taking off at two in the morning. 

I've been this route before: "Eagle" is famous - or infamous - for his night flights. In this case we're bound for Rome, which is seven hours ahead of us. By the time we touch down, it'll be late afternoon. At some point I've _got_ to catch a few Z's, because I know I'll have scant chance once we arrive. I don't foresee any difficulty napping here, though; this bird must have the smoothest ride of any aircraft every built. It's the _opportunity_ I need. 

I think I'm pretty safe in betting that The Man won't sleep a wink. He's the consummate airborne insomniac. Why, oh _why_ does he consistently refuse to permit a schedule that includes daylight travel? His wife is much more considerate. 

There's a thrill to any trip, but even more so when "Eagle" has been looking forward to it for ages. I've never seen him anything _like_ this excited. 

Of course, seeing the Vatican might have _something_ to do with it... 

"Regina" was so disappointed that she couldn't come with us. She virtually begged me for a full report. God knows she'd cherish this marvelous opportunity as much as her husband. Sometimes it seems like there's no justice in the world. 

I'm present in my "Leanne" role, but I'll hardly be needed during the flight itself. Not as a bodyguard, anyway. This plane is _so_ secure it's almost farcical... until one remembers just how much is riding on one of its passengers. 

But a secretary/stenographer/general assistant, which is what almost everyone else thinks I am, is never off-duty. Just ask "Batman." If we're lucky, _both_ of us will manage to snatch at least a little sleep before we land. Meanwhile, here I am, seated outside "Eagle's" flying office and trying to look useful. It's in these moments when I wish I actually _did_ have some administrative work to do. 

Speaking of Charlie, he's been in there for quite a while. Want to bet that "Eagle's" launched into another one of his lectures? Who knows what the subject is this time. That kid puts up with more drivel... 

Ah; they're finally done. 

"...telling you, these stats don't lie. It's way safer to fly than sail today." 

Or not done. I wonder just how many stats he's reeled off in the past half-hour. 

"Is that why there's an entire flotilla spread out below us right now, from coast to coast?" Oh, boy; "Batman" must be tired to dare offer much of a rebuttal. 

"Eagle" stops in the corridor a few feet from me, which forces his body man to do the same and hear the rest of this. Neither notices my presence. "Oh, that's just a matter of prestige." 

Nothing wrong with the executive ego tonight. 

"You'll never get me aboard one of those superliners with six thousand-plus passengers. How can they possibly evacuate in a hurry?" 

Fair point, sir. Although a person is more likely to survive a shipwreck than a plane crash. But then, you won't get _me_ on one of those huge multi-deck planes for the same reason. 

"Now take the _Titanic_..." 

Pay no attention, show no interest... 

"No, sir, I don't think I will." 

One for you, Charlie. Not that it'll do much good; The Man is on a role for fair. 

I keep my head lowered and pretend to be invisible. Short of getting up and leaving, though, which is contrary to my orders, I won't be able to miss a word between them. 

"That beautiful ship was the culmination of human engineering at the time. She was built so carefully and so proudly that they got cocky. She was more than _twice_ the size of most of the other liners afloat then. She carried over twenty-two hundred people." Oh, yeah, "Eagle" is rolling. Everyone stand back. "Her safety standards were fifteen years out of date. There should've been twice as many lifeboats if they were going to save everyone. But the thought of unnecessarily infringing upon first-class deck space sank _that_ proposal." 

"No pun intended, right, sir?" 

Poor lad. The patience he has to have. Of course, since our leader can't or _won't_ sleep on these flights, he has more time to kill and fewer distractions, which means that "Batman" is targeted for these talks even more than usual. 

Then there's the trifling fact that his boss isn't quite accurate about all his facts for once - 

"Coll - Leanne?" 

See, this is why "Leanne" was chosen. I look up. "Sir?" 

"Eagle" is watching me rather closely. "Did I glimpse some head-shaking there?" 

Uh-oh. Possible quicksand. "I... don't think so, sir." 

"I _do_ think so. You have something to contribute? Let's hear it." 

Definitely quicksand. "Sir, it's not my place -" 

"Well, I'm _making_ it your place. Charlie's about used up for one night." 

Ain't _that_ the truth? "Eagle" does tend to go through a lot of listeners on trips like this. But the kid's not quite so used up that he can't spare me a smile. 

I get it: misery loves company. My sympathy for his suffering has just evaporated. 

I glance both ways. No one else in sight. No escape. 

_No witnesses_. __

I set aside my clipboard and rise. And so to battle. However, I always anticipated doing battle _for_ this man, not _against_ him. 

"Very well, Mr. President. Should I call for backup first?" 

He folds his arms and smirks. "Why? Are you so afraid you'll lose to me?" 

I try to rein in my own smile. "No, sir. I just don't want to be distracted by my _real_ job and give you an unfair advantage." Ha; made him blink that time. 

"The fact is, sir, that even if the _Titanic_ _had_ been provided with enough lifeboats, it still would not have saved everyone on her maiden voyage." 

Oh, boy - did I ever capture his attention. And with one sentence, too. I might have a chance after all. 

"The crew did manage to launch all the boats they had, but the last two were literally floated off the deck. That's how close they cut it. They had only one team of officers and men on either side of the ship, each team launching one boat at a time. If they'd been prepared to load all twenty boats simultaneously, as they could have done and _should_ have done, then yes - the shortage would have hurt. But at the snail's pace the crew was working, if there _had_ been more boats, they wouldn't have had time even to cut them loose. Twenty boats or fifty; makes no difference. Half of the people on board had no chance at all." 

Oops, that might have been a bit much. This is what happens when you really know the subject matter. I think I actually forgot to whom I'm speaking. 

Hm; maybe now I understand why "Eagle" loves to hold his own lectures so much. Information like this is _meant_ to be shared. 

Whew; at least he doesn't look offended. His feet-shifting seems to be more like readying for combat, as opposed to readying for reprimand. Just maybe he can appreciate that same kind of enthusiasm in others. He used to be a professor, after all... 

"But they didn't save half; they barely saved a _third_. And some boats were sent off more than half-empty!" 

"Yes, sir, they were. Most passengers refused to get in at first, which was an added delay in launching. Until the last twenty minutes that ship seemed da - uh, mighty stable, despite her gradually increasing slant towards the bow. Certainly much steadier and safer, and brighter and warmer, than any small, cold lifeboat." 

He lets out a half-snort, half-grunt. "Not unlike this administration." 

Neither Charlie nor I have any idea how to respond to that. I _think_ it's safe to assume that he's kidding. His situation isn't _quite_ so desperate... 

I just realize that I've been virtually ignoring "Batman" during all of this. He's probably as used to such treatment as I am. 

Curious: now he's _really_ grinning at me. I get the feeling that he doesn't see many people go head to head with our eccentric yet very intelligent President. 

"Eagle" is watching me, too, as closely as before. _His_ attention tends to make me _nervous_. 

"I'm impressed." 

It's my turn to blink. "I am complimented. I know I'm not as extensive a repository for information as you are, sir... but there might be one or two topics of interest. Also, we have to be trained in all manners of evacuation ourselves... which includes studying examples of how _not_ to do it." 

His expression is strangely intense - almost calculating. "Indeed." 

What...? 

Oh, damn. I know what I've just done: I've set myself up as an additional target for "Eagle" discourses. He's never involved me before. Now, I just _know_ that he's going to search for topics where he can instruct me as well. 

* * *

September 2001 

Oh, man, I am _such_ a bundle of nerves today. 

_Relax!_ We're all over this. Everything's under control. I have to keep telling myself that. 

It's not working. 

What's the matter with me? We've hosted world leaders often enough before. I've been involved in a few such visits by now, and nothing's ever happened. We're the best of the best. We can handle it. Everyone will be safe. 

Besides, it's not like we have to work hard to impress our visitors. President Shepherd always liked to remind people that Washington was designed specifically to intimidate foreign heads of state. The biggest home court advantage in the modern world, indeed! 

Except that somehow I can't see _this_ head of state being intimidated by anyone or anything. Not even the President. 

I'm doing my best not to fidget. Several of us are just standing around the North Portico, waiting. The channel is quiet; none of us want to delay transmission of that vital signal - 

"Acrobat to Crown. The Queen's Flight has landed." 

It begins. From this moment on, and for the next three days, the Sovereign of Great Britain and Head of the Commonwealth will be _our_ responsibility. 

I've got no reason to be so anxious. She and several other members of her Family have visited us lots of times before, all with nary a mishap. Why should this be any different? 

Maybe because this time I'm directly involved and in the ideal position to worry? 

Come _on!_ I'm responsible for "Eagle" himself! How can you get more nerve-racking than that? Name one person who has more enemies than _he_ does! And for what better reason - he's literally the most powerful man in the world. 

Realistically, a constitutional monarch is in far less danger than a President. After all, she has virtually no political power at all, save in the most extreme cases of national upheaval. In fact, only one member of the Royal Family has been murdered in modern times... compared to four executive assassinations here within a mere hundred and ten years. 

The Secret Service detests playing the odds. Our briefings for the entire past week have been long and depressing. First concern: the nutcases, who think that killing someone famous brings them prestige as well... or who don't even reason that far to justify violence. Concern number two is the IRA: for sure they haven't given up on their crusade against British oppression, as they see it - and you can bet your bottom dollar they have operatives over here as well, for just such an occasion as this. The third greatest risk is from those who truly hate the American government and/or the President, for whatever reason, and would love to launch a public attack _anytime_. In fact they'd probably be quite content with killing a prominent guest or two, just to embarrass the United States before the whole world. 

That they would. Never mind the personal grief of the other royals and the British people, as well as anyone else hurt at the same time; this would seriously rock world stability, and we as a country would never live it down. If the strongest nation around and the globally-acknowledged leading protection agency can't safeguard two senior citizens -! 

Assuming our own leader didn't get caught in the crossfire too, of course. 

What irony. The risk to the Bartlets has increased because the Windsors are here... and the Queen would be in less danger herself if she weren't with the President as well. In a way, because they'll be together, each has inherited the other's enemies. 

First Family... Royal Family. Lots of ground for comparison. 

Working with the advance team for the Royal Protection Force has been very interesting. They have a lot in common with us, and a lot of differences as well. They're trained no less carefully, and with many similar techniques. However, they place more emphasis on general deportment and protocol than we ever do. It's not unheard of for one of their personal protection officers to join his or her charge at a meal with ambassadors. That wouldn't happen here. Also, I've seen Butterfield order "Eagle" around before in a dangerous moment, and there was no deference in his tone then. I just can't imagine anyone _ever_ directing such a sharp command at Her Majesty... except maybe her husband. 

"Acrobat to Crown. Scepter is en route." 

"Acknowledged. Eagle will be on his way." 

The fine-tuned nuances of diplomatic image still baffle me at times, even now. We may be the only superpower left in the world today, but our President politely treats even the most obscure international leader as his equal. However, it wouldn't do for The Man to appear to be kept waiting by anyone, much less the descendent of George III. So everything is timed to the second, avoiding the merest hint of supremacy by either. 

Depending upon whom you talk to, and where you're standing at the time, feelings can still run high even today. To some people it's positively unpatriotic to express sympathy for England, if not downright treasonous. We went to so much trouble to break away from the Crown, and now we're inviting it back? Forget the similarities in our cultures, and in our ceremonial. We got here on our own strengths, our own accomplishments, our own nickel. We take second place to no one, _especially_ not to Britain. We have the political clout, and we have the military might. Our leader doesn't bow to anyone. 

Then again, neither does the Queen. She can trace her family line straight back almost a thousand years. Her nation was _the_ undisputed world power in 1900, and had been for two centuries prior, building the greatest empire the human race has ever known. Her experience in statescraft is unparalleled; no other international figure alive today has been around as long. She personally oversaw the _peaceful_ dissolution of that empire, an unprecedented event in history, and she's the unofficial referee to a fifth of the globe. All in all, a pretty staggering résumé. 

And no matter where she goes, Americans turn out in droves. There's just _something_ about a royal personage that no politician can match - not even your _own_ supreme politician. 

Fortunately, for two nations that went their separate ways after a bitter and bloody revolution, we've since become the staunchest of allies. 

I wonder what HM herself thinks about all of this. It must be sort of like having your child run away from home, then end up surpassing you in greatness and even pitching in when you need some serious help. Which is a good thing, considering how the wars of the last century turned out. In fact, I wonder if she's even _glad_ to yield up the pressures of world leadership to another responsible nation. Passing the torch to the next generation? 

According to the mutters in my ear, the British motorcade is only minutes away, and "Eagle" has left the West Wing. I take a last uneasy look around, but all is in order. The snipers are on the rooftops. The crowd control uniforms are in place and on the ball. The packed mass of public spectators is behind the barriers across the street. Nothing is going to happen. 

Please _God_ , may nothing happen. 

I head inside. We'd rather not parade our heightened security in front of the cameras. 

I remember overhearing an argument last night between some staffers about our two styles of government. The American model is beautifully designed, but it doesn't function quite as efficiently as it should. (What bureaucracy does? They're made up of people. Enough said.) The English model is unwieldy by comparison, yet it's worked fairly well for far longer, so it can't be that bad. There is something to be said for separating the Head of the Nation and the Head of State: if the Brits don't like how their country's being run, they get mad at the Prime Minister, not the Sovereign. Here we make no such distinction, which dumps the colossal burden of both jobs onto the shoulders of only one person. 

Speaking of whom, here he is. Just looking at this man, you can feel his sense of presence. He's been in politics for decades now, and he's been President long enough to feel totally secure in his position as the acclaimed leader of the free world. 

Then again, Elizabeth II has been in _her_ role for almost all of Jed Bartlet's life! 

He isn't indulging in the usual small talk or casual quips this afternoon. His whole attention is focused on representing the United States in a particularly public event. He seems perfectly calm, aware of his status yet not arrogant about it, confident in his own credentials. 

But I know him well enough by now to glimpse a hint of self-consciousness beneath. 

Who can blame him? It's his first meeting ever with this rather extraordinary woman. Our trip to Rome two weeks ago was quite different: "Eagle" hadn't seen the Vatican before, but he had met the Pope on at least one previous occasion. Besides, that was more a matter of faith than of state. Also, here _he's_ the host. That places a whole new emphasis on appearance, conduct and honor. 

An added factor is that the Queen is one of those forever figures, having been around ever since one can remember. Not like a transitory politician. Big difference. 

I'm sure "Eagle" isn't _that_ uncomfortable. "Scepter" probably comes closest to being his genuine political equal in the world today. He's amazingly easy to talk to, once you get past his title, and by all accounts she is as well. I imagine that he knows to curb his love for trivia this time, though - because for once he will have definitely met his match. A person can't occupy the world stage for over sixty years without learning a thing or two. 

I'm just so grateful for my invisible role right now. I won't come under the royal eye myself. I don't have to think about all the possible diplomatic blunders; I only have to worry about _security_ blunders. I doubt I'll hear much at all of what she has to say - or _my_ leader, either. In fact, I'll probably miss a lot of the impact behind this historical visit. 

Just so long as that's _all_ I miss. 

What a shame. These unique moments will never come again, and yet I'm simply not allowed to savor them. 

Can't be helped. It's not my job to be entertained by the functions I attend with _him._

I'm glad that this ultimately impressive visitor has chosen to grace us with her presence, but I'll be glad to see her leave - _safely_. 

"Scepter is pulling up. Open doors - now." 

The two door-wardens react with precise timing. The moment has arrived. "Eagle" takes an extra breath, somehow achieving a precise balance between dignity and warmth. And steps forward. We all follow him, into the sunshine, into history. 

* * *

October 2001 

"Pick... him... up... fast... and... let's... _go_..." 

"Can... someone... get... her... too..." 

Regulations: in an alert, evacuate the protectee at all speed, even if you have to carry him. 

But we've got only one protectee tonight; "Regina" didn't come. Who's this _her?_

"Watch... for... diversions..." 

"Move... _move..._ " 

Oh, right; we're not in "Crown." This is an outside event, and something happened. We're supposed to clear out in a hurry. Now what was the reason again? 

And I still don't know who "her" is. Although she can't be _that_ important, if we considered leaving her behind. 

"Pause... here... secure... the... room..." 

Hm; it's unusual to halt in mid-flight. As a rule we don't stop for anything. 

"Find... a... chair... fast..." 

Good idea. If we _do_ have to carry the protectee, a slim, hardback chair will make it much easier. Especially down stairs. Otherwise you need four porters for even a reasonably swift and smooth ride, and that's a bit wide for going through doors. 

"Check... him... for... injuries..." 

Ah, another good idea. In an Alert, evacuation is imperative - but if the protectee is seriously injured, those wounds might have to be treated first. Heavy bleeding or obstructed breathing won't wait until we're in the car. Better to risk a _possible_ attack than the certainty that every second counts towards survival itself. 

"Are... you... all... right..." 

Funny how everything sounds so odd, so slow. Like listening through water. I can't quite recognize the voice. 

Wait a minute; back up a bit. The protectee - 

Is injured - 

"... sir?" 

_Light._ I can _see_ \- but what was my vision doing off-line in the first - 

I'm lying flat on the floor - 

And "Eagle" is right beside me - 

Lightning blazes through me - pain - confusion - panic - _what happened to him_ \- 

He's face down and his eyes are closed and he's not moving - 

My arm's so heavy - but I've got to know - stretch across the floor - reach for his throat - is there a pulse - should be right _there_ \- my God, I can't _tell_ \- I can't feel _anything_ \- is it me or is it _him_ \- 

Agents crouched on either side of him - guns out - each with a hand on his shoulder - they've got him safe - but _is he alive_ \- 

He's moving - 

"What the hell happened?" 

He's speaking - 

At least he sounds normal - but why were the other voices so strange to begin with - 

"Don't move, Colleen. And you lie still too, Mr. President. You're all right. We're going to get you out of here in just a minute." 

What happened to him - was he shot - stabbed - an explosion - the MS - 

I'm flat out here, too - what happened to _me_ \- 

I can't remember - I can't think - 

Forget me - _he's_ what's important - 

"Well, hurry up. The floor's not very comfortable." 

He's joking - 

"Can you tell me how you feel, sir?" 

Yes - tell me, too - _tell_ me he's all right - 

"Like I've been run over by a herd of bison, thank you." 

If he can joke, he can't be too badly hurt - but then, he was joking in the ER after Rosslyn - 

"No, sir; just a herd of Secret Service." 

Wait - _we_ ran over him - we're supposed to protect him - not assault him ourselves - 

"I can't wait to see the headlines on this one." 

He's not moving much at all - his eyes are still closed - but he's joking - 

"We've already checked, sir, and you don't appear to have any fractures. But we're not taking any chances. Is there pain anywhere? Can you feel your hands and feet?" 

Will he even admit to us if it's _that_ problem again - 

"I know what you're getting at. No, nothing hurts _much_. And yes, I have sensation in my extremities, so there shouldn't be any spinal damage... or anything _else_." 

Huge sigh - whatever happened to him is minor - _minor_ \- 

The speech tonight... there was a receiving line... a yell... a scuffle... a fast exit... 

"How about your head, sir? Are you feeling dizzy or unwell?" 

Long pause. "Yes." 

Oh, no - _that's_ why he's keeping his eyes closed - 

Or - is it because _we_ hurt him - 

"All right, here we go. Mr. President, we're going to lift you into this chair and carry you out of here. Relax, please, and leave the work to us." 

We're getting him out of here at last - 

"Yeah, whatever you say. I'm not in much of a position to object. Just don't ask me to sign anything." 

Agents milling all around him - blocking my view - 

They'll carry him out - he'll be safe - he'll recover - if we didn't hurt him even more than - 

WE hurt him - on top of everything else - 

He's gone - _I can't see him anymore -_

"Okay, 'Leanne,' you're next." 

I'm next - then I must've been hurt as well - that's why - 

Hands on my arms - field of view changing - 

"No..." Got to get the words out - "Leave me..." This is no time to worry about a mere bodyguard - "See to _him!_ " 

"Take it easy; he's already headed for the car. Come on. We still shouldn't hang around here." 

On my feet - supported - moving - stumbling - halls - lights - blurred faces - 

"What..." I have to know - "... happened?" 

"Hang on." The voice - I think it's Donnie - "Let's get in the car first." 

The speech... heading out... "Eagle" shaking hands... some fool rushing the rope line... some of us pulling "Eagle" to safety... some of us hauling the idiot back... all of us hurrying down a corridor towards the exit... 

Hey - other staff members - how will this look to them - I left with "Eagle" - they'd expect me to leave with them instead - have I blown my cover - 

Street lamps - soft seat - slamming doors - car engines - 

"Here; lean back and rest your head. You took a real hit in the tumble." 

What - "... Tumble?" 

"Yeah; Eagle tripped as we were tearing down some stairs. Next thing you know, we're sprawled all over the place - with the two of you underneath." 

Right... following close behind... down some steps... he lurched... I must've plowed straight into him... and then everyone else into me... 

"Could be a mild attack brought on by the long day and the rapid departure. He _is_ fully lucid. Or, maybe he was just clumsy. God knows he has the right to be tired. His schedule has been pretty brutal of late." 

True - _anyone_ would buckle under this kind of pressure - he's been pushing himself hard - proving he can take it - it's not fair to him at all - no one should blame him for an attack due to sheer exhaustion - but he can't try to hide it anymore when it _does_ happen - 

Or maybe it _wasn't_ an attack - maybe just human clumsiness - he might've lost his footing in the rush - banged his head a bit - just like anyone else - 

How can we tell - how can _he_ tell - every time he so much as stumbles, we all wonder - and worry - and _he_ does, too - 

Even if it's not an attack, will people believe that - 

"If it weren't so serious, we'd all be laughing. What a sight that must've been!" 

The sight - half a dozen Service agents piled on top of the President - 

"And I sure hope he didn't hear some of the language when we realized _who_ was on the bottom of the heap!" 

I can just imagine - at least _I_ didn't hear it - 

"As for the attacker, he's full-bore loony. Sounds like he winged out just because Eagle didn't happen to shake _his_ hand in passing. You gotta love this life." 

We dragged The Man to safety when some lunatic charged him... we got him out of there when he was at risk... 

And then we did our damnedest to break his neck on the stairs... 

"Regina" is going to kill us. 


	19. I, Lifesaver 19

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 19 ~ 

October 2001 

Being a secret weapon is fine for the ego, but it has at least one major drawback: they want to use you all the time. I don't know how "Eagle" can stand his travel schedule, and it's even worse for the agents with him. Thank God Butterfield took pity on me this time and decided I could miss one trip. After all, New Hampshire is The Man's home state. One would _think_ that the danger level would be lower there than anywhere else. 

Amusingly, no sooner was I shunted to "Crown" for the weekend than "Regina" put in a request to borrow me back. I won't say "repossess," exactly; it feels more like a bit of a homecoming, and every bit as relaxing. 

As it happens, Yvonne is on leave and "Regina's" other regular agent, Julie, is ill. So this works out just fine. In fact, I feel almost like a favorite tool, being traded back and forth between my two owners, obviously valued by both. The metaphor is not uncomplimentary. 

This afternoon she's entertaining an old friend. Sylvie Ouellet is very cultured, always very precisely turned out, and must own more jewelry than the Queen Mother. The closest thing to aristocracy that the United States will admit to, I suspect. 

I've seen her on a few past visits. Boy, she's really getting frail. I'm glad she brought along a female companion to drive her. But from the sound of it, her mind is still sharp. 

Or maybe Mrs. Ouellet isn't as frail as I thought. We four are walking slowly through the State Rooms, and "Regina" stops often - ostensibly to point something out, but I'll bet her real purpose is to let her friend rest. Still, this seventy-something lady is holding out quite well. 

I stay back, not part of the conversation but easily within hail. Not that there aren't other agents around at all times... but that isn't the point. Mrs. Ouellet just loves to savor the fact that, while she's with the First Lady, she's entitled to Secret Service protection as well. And her old college chum is fully willing to humor her. 

Okay, they're sitting down in the Blue Room. I declare, that woman's wearing so many gems that she dazzles in the sunshine. One ruby bracelet is particularly handsome... and large. In fact it's really _too_ large for her; I can hear it bang against her thin wrist bones from here. 

Oops; as if she heard my thoughts, she's taking it off. "Oh, I love this so, but that's enough for the moment." She places it almost tenderly on a nearby side table. 

I'll just stand here, doing my impression of a statue, until they're ready to move on... 

Ah, "Regina" is bringing this visit to a gentle close. She has such a knack for subtlety; nothing abrupt about it that can make her friend feel hurt. And I don't know how she keeps time in her head, but she's exactly on schedule. As usual. 

Uh-oh. Don't forget your bracelet, Mrs. Ouellet. Both she and her companion are up and moving away. I may have to mention it - 

No need; "Regina" is there, picking up that sparkly trinket - 

And _putting it in her own blazer pocket -_

I did _not_ just see that... 

Both guests had their backs turned; they didn't see it, either. 

I cannot believe I saw her do that. 

Don't move. No expression, no sound... no sign at all... 

The First Lady does not steal. She'd _never_ take someone else's personal possession. 

Okay, our visitors are definitely leaving. Please, ma'am, _please_ prove my eyes wrong. _Say_ something to them - 

"It was great to see you again, Sylvie." 

Nothing. My God... 

Please, Mrs. Ouellet, remember. Come on - if it comes from _you_ , at least - 

"And you, Abbey. Let's do this again soon." 

Oh, hell. _Now_ what do I do? 

Don't look at me, any of you, or else you'll _know_ something is wrong, and this sure shouldn't come from _me_... 

I'm supposed to be invisible, to not react to anything my protectees say or do. I've witnessed some wonderful moments of delightful humor - but of course I can't laugh along. I've seen some blazing eruptions, too - but I have to pretend that nothing actually happened. 

I have never before seen one of my protectees commit a crime. 

It's my job to leap in front of danger. It's _not_ my job to be an accessory to an illegal act. 

Now they're parting, and "Regina" still hasn't said anything about... 

This is not a joke. She has no intention of mentioning that bracelet... or returning it... 

At least Mrs. Ouellet will be escorted from the White House by a different agent. If I had to go along... but instead I have to follow "Regina" back to her office. 

Don't look at me, ma'am. I can't bear the thought of what I just saw... 

It's like I'm on automatic pilot. I'm shadowing her, exactly like normal, but I'd be lying if I said I was really doing my job. My head literally hurts... though not so much as my heart. 

What am I going to do? 

Or should I do anything at all? 

How do you accuse a national icon, and the most popular woman in the country, of theft? 

No, never. There _is_ a legitimate reason, somewhere, for why she just... 

Maybe it does belong to her, and Mrs. Ouellet had borrowed it sometime earlier. _(But why would a woman with arguably the largest gem collection in North America borrow from someone else?)_ Or maybe Mrs. Ouellet is doing the loaning. _(To the First Lady, who is showered with lavish gifts wherever she goes, especially jewelry from foreign heads of state?)_ Maybe Mrs. Ouellet gave it as a present of her own. _(And "Regina" didn't thank her?)_

Besides, there was no hint of it changing hands deliberately. Mrs. Ouellet said "for the moment" as she put it down... and "Regina" said _nothing_ as she picked it up... 

And neither of her guests saw her do it... 

No. There _must_ be some other explanation. I _can't_ believe that of her. 

And yet, I can't get past the inconceivable sight of Abbey Bartlet, calmly, without a word... 

Such a thing is so unlike _her_... my mind won't grasp it. 

The only time I perspire on the job is when there's a crisis. Please, don't let anyone notice - especially not her - 

I've played blind and deaf before, when someone lost their temper or the like. I can do it again. What I witnessed _did not happen._

I _must_ be mistaken. Damn it, I should have more trust in my First Lady than this. Of _course_ she'd never do such a thing. There has to be a perfectly valid reason behind that action. Doesn't matter what it is; it has to exist. And that means it's none of my business. I will forget. I _will_. 

There's Ricco up ahead, waiting for us. Thank God; I won't have to hang around here where she might look at me. It's my turn to hit the command post and bury myself in computer printouts. Maybe that will help me forget what I saw. 

Lots of times I've been afraid for my protectee. This is the first time I've ever been afraid _of_ my protectee. 

Afraid, nothing; I'm terrified. If she so much as glances my way, she'll know I saw... 

No, I did _not_ see. "Regina" doesn't steal. Not possible. And if it's not possible, then I simply couldn't have seen what I thought I saw. End of story. 

Trust. Forget. Trust - 

"Reilly." 

I'm so nervous by now that I spin like a top. _Control,_ girl! 

That may not be easy. It's Butterfield - and he looks even less jovial than normal. 

_Now_ what? As if I don't have enough on my mind. But then, any distraction - 

"Regina's guest, Mrs. Ouellet, was about to leave when she suddenly claims to be missing a ruby bracelet. She actually thinks it was stolen while she was here." 

My heart falls to the marble floor and shatters like glass. 

So much for all my hopeful excuses. There can be no other possible conclusion now. 

Stolen. 

With all my soul, I don't want to believe it... but this leaves me no choice. The evidence is irrefutably against her. 

"As if such a thing could happen in the White House." My boss is coldly angry that anyone who works here would even consider such a reprehensible act. Politics is one thing, but out-and-out theft of personal belongings? Never. Not by _our_ people. 

I am totally at my wit's end. This is far more than a security breach. This is an utter collapse of foundations. 

"But she's adamant about it. Now you were with them most of the time. Look into it quickly, and _quietly_. I don't want this to get around. And I sure don't want to disturb Regina." 

And when it gets out that the First Lady "borrowed" the bracelet herself? That might be considered a _tad_ disturbing, don't you think? 

I can just see the headlines. "Regina" has already been attacked for her role in covering up "Eagle's" MS for the past eight years. People still argue back and forth about breach of medical ethics and hiding an important health issue in a federal political candidate, versus saving her husband's life and preserving his right to privacy. She may have been technically wrong at times, but she's still beloved by the public. They'll forgive her a lot. 

But _this_ \- God, she'll be crucified. 

Not that. Anything but that. _Anything._

There: that's the solution. 

"Sir..." 

I've got his attention. _Do_ it, girl! Don't give yourself time to think - 

"I think I can shed some light on this." 

He perks up at once. "Good! Let's hear it." 

Committed to my course. Deep breath. _Duty._

"I'm afraid... I'm the guilty party." 

Silence. I bet no one ever before has seen Ron Butterfield stunned speechless. 

If only I could enjoy the sight... 

Then he seizes me by one arm and drags me aside into a vacant conference room nearby, where we won't be overheard. 

"Are you _serious?_ " 

I just nod, offering no explanation. I have never been more serious in my life. 

" _Why?_ What would possess you to..." Boy, is he ever off-balance. He can't even find the words to describe this violation of trust. 

I'm holding myself still with every bit of strength I can muster. "I can't explain." 

He's shaking his head, in total astonishment. And professional mortification. 

"You... have been responsible for Regina's life... for _Eagle's_ life... and then you'd go and do something like..." 

I cringe. I can't help it. Put that way, it sounds like the more reprehensible betrayal. 

My boss is breathing rather more quickly than normal - and looking rather more formidable as well. "Well. We'll deal with that later." Implication: will we ever! Whether I'm dishonest or ill or crazy, it can wait. "Just hand over Mrs. Ouellet's bauble right now." 

Except I don't have it. Sudden panic - any tale I spin will collapse in no time. And if they go searching -! 

There's only one gamble left to me. "That's... no longer possible." 

And I thought Butterfield looked fierce _before_. This combination of rage and disgust is enough to make me step backward. But it also means that he's reached the right conclusion (or rather, the _wrong_ one): that I was too strapped for cash even to wait until my shift's end before selling my booty and trying to cover my tracks. 

They won't find it, not in a hundred years. I can find some small comfort in that, at least. Even as I stand here and let myself be flayed alive, I know "Regina" is safe. 

I've taken my stand. I have to live with it. 

"Your weapon." 

I hand it over without a word. Right now I wouldn't be all that surprised if he summarily turned it on me. I always said I never wanted to face his anger myself... 

"Go to my office." Coldly furious, my boss dismisses me as though I'm completely beneath a decent citizen's notice. 

I'm gone. I can feel my shoulders bowing under the massive weight of the truth - a truth more awful than he can imagine. 

_Hurry._ Heaven forbid that this news should spread before I can get out of sight. 

Of course, anyone called - or sent - to Ron Butterfield's office is in deep trouble anyway. 

I get his door closed and almost fall into the visitor's chair. My breathing is ragged; I'm on the absolute verge of tears. 

What have I _done?_

My career is over. No employer would keep a self-confessed thief on the payroll, much less the premier residence in the country. Certainly I'll never work in any field remotely related to security again. A reference from the First Family would've taken me anywhere; a _lack_ of reference will be damning. 

And now everyone will wonder what _else_ I might have done in the past - or taken. No wonder I'm such a lousy bodyguard, they'll say. 

The very worst, though, is that the Bartlets will forever after believe that I've deceived them all this time. A cheap crook, or a pathological thief, from day one. 

Everyone except "Regina," of course. But she can hardly say anything. In fact, she now has the perfect scapegoat to cover herself. She'll go along with everyone else's assumptions. I know she won't enjoy doing so; like her husband, she's got one of the noblest souls around. But by going along she can protect his career, and her family name, and the White House's image, and Mrs. Ouellet's long-term friendship at the same time. 

All it will cost is one unknown, _willing_ employee. 

She'll be embarrassed, though, and the President even more so, when I stand trial. This sort of thing can't escape the notice of the press. And what do you suppose I can expect from the jail term I'll then have to serve? For sure I'll have to do _some_ time. I don't dare mount a legal defense; I can't risk throwing suspicion in any other direction. And law enforcers do so well behind bars. I might even run into a few old friends from past counterfeiting busts. Oh, boy; I can look forward to some lively - and short-lived - days there, all right. 

God... In one short hour, my life has completely crashed. I've ruined my hard-earned reputation; I've destroyed my past, my present, and my future in one stroke. 

What will _Brian_ think? I can't tell even _him_ ; he'd fly to my defense at once. 

He'll be shattered. He'll have to believe I'm guilty, just like everyone else... 

Will my _marriage_ survive this? 

One way or another, I know _I_ won't. 

But the First Lady will be protected. 

That knowledge eases my misery. Not much. A bit. 

I stand by her decision to secretly and illegally safeguard her husband's health all through the campaign and his administration. That was entirely justifiable. But _this_... 

Maybe she'll take steps of her own now. Kleptomania can be treated. For her own sake and that of her entire family, I hope she finds effective and _discreet_ assistance. Her image has crumbled before my eyes... but this will grant her a second chance to measure up to others. 

It's worth the pain. For her. 

This _is_ pain. I'm just sitting here, eyes closed, aching to my very core. 

I am innocent of the crime. But I can't tell the truth. It would crush "Regina" if this ever came out. It would crush "Eagle," too. And their daughters... And their hard-working staff... And all public support... 

I am here to protect, to suffer in her stead. That's why I signed up at the start. 

This is not the way I envisioned sacrificing myself for my protectee. Being shot, sure. Being blown up, quite possibly. I used to wonder if I'd sustain light injuries or crippling wounds, if I'd die lingeringly or on the spot. Whatever might have transpired, I was always prepared to face it, so long as the life under my care survived. 

Whether injury or death, I would have done my duty in my protectee's eye, and in the public eye as well. Naturally I'd rather live to retire - but if I _have_ to die on the job, a hero's end isn't a bad way to go. I could face it more easily as a result, knowing everyone else agreed with me. 

This - is an end by _disgrace_. 

Good thing Butterfield confiscated my weapon. I swear, I have never been closer to suicide in my life... 

God help me... give me the strength to endure this... for her sake... 

The door behind me opens. I don't have to turn to know who's standing there. 

"Come on." My boss's tone could bring the Ice Age back to Death Valley. 

I obey. Eyes front. I can't meet his glare. I just go with him, silently, one leaden footfall after another. Time to face the music. 

Never again will we walk, and work, shoulder to shoulder. Doing the duty I love. Together protecting the most prominent citizens in America. 

Even if the news isn't out yet, just the sight of us will tell all and sundry that I'm done for. I am almost literally walking my Last Mile. 

I try to hold my head up. No matter what everyone else thinks, at least _I_ know I've done the right thing. That will have to sustain me. 

Butterfield doesn't say a thing, either. I can feel his presence beside me, radiating fury. It's a wonder I'm not burnt to a crisp by the time we reach our destination. 

_The Oval Office._ In the same terrifying silence, my boss leaves me here. 

So "Eagle" himself will pass judgment and condemnation. After all the conversations we've shared, and the dangers, he now gets to show me the door. Might as well; I'm sure I'll never see him or any of his family again. Not close, anyway. Not as a _friend_. 

I sure can't tell _him_ the truth. I couldn't bear to hurt him. He loves his wife with all his heart. 

I'm going to have to lie to my Commander-in-Chief. 

Oh - come to think of it, I'm probably facing quite an interrogation before they haul me off in handcuffs. Better get my story straight. If I'm not convincing, they'll guess that I'm trying to protect someone... and then they'll know _whom_. 

What I wouldn't give to crawl away unseen... 

The door closes behind me. The Man has arrived. I don't turn. Time for my _first_ death... the first of many to come. My Chief Executive has become my chief executioner. 

"Colleen." 

_Yeek_ \- okay, this is my second greatest shock today. It's "Regina" herself 

I forgot: "Eagle" is out of town. As a result, this judgment falls to her. What irony. 

I'm totally frozen in place, staring. She's standing there, hands clasped, face carefully neutral. Waiting for something. 

Somehow, I make my throat work. "Dr. Bartlet." 

Only now does she approach. Step by deliberate step, to a spot about five feet away. 

Don't move. Don't shift, don't fidget, don't so much as twitch - 

"I've been told what you did earlier." 

Of course. Butterfield would have gone to her with my confession. 

A confession we both know isn't true. 

And we both know why. 

With great difficulty, I manage to swallow. "Yes, ma'am." 

Her dark, probing eyes don't leave me, even as she reaches into her blazer pocket... and brings out the ruby bracelet that I so clearly remember. "Something to do with this, I believe." 

_What_ is she getting at? "Yes, ma'am." 

"Well, we now have a problem. How will you account for the object reportedly stolen by you, and immediately sold for profit, coming into my possession less than an hour later?" 

So much for my credible story. Is she _trying_ to undo everything I've done to keep her out of this? "I... have no idea, ma'am." 

"Plus the fact that your fingerprints won't be found anywhere on it." 

_I know that!_ And I did everything in my power to keep them from thinking to check! 

"Here." I blink; she's extending the bracelet to me. "Forget the prints. I think you deserve a good look at the item you _allegedly_ lifted from my guest." 

This forces me to step closer to her, until I'm within arm's length. In the past, I've often been awed. Now, I'm just plain scared. 

It's heavy, and it's beautiful. It's gold, with a fabulous ruby setting. Something that a person like me could never hope to own. And... it's engraved. 

"AAB." Abigail Ann Bartlet. With hearts on either side. 

It's been hers all along. 

I don't need a mirror to know what my face does now: first the blankness of shock, then the pallor of comprehension, and then the scarlet of sheer embarrassment. 

Could I _possibly_ have made a grosser misinterpretation? Not likely. 

And all those things I thought about her in the meantime -! 

"That bracelet was a gift from my husband on our silver wedding anniversary. Sylvie asked to borrow it the other month. Today, she finally remembered to bring it back. We discussed it over lunch before our tour, but of course you weren't in the room then." 

"Correct, ma'am." Still, even seeing her take this piece had not been enough in itself to convince me. And my protectee knows it; she seems to be waiting again. 

"Uh, ma'am... I noticed that this is the only bracelet with rubies that Mrs. Ouellet wore today. So - why did she then claim to have been robbed?" 

"Regina" takes a few seconds to reply... and I can now detect a real sadness in her eyes. "You've seen my old friend a few times here before, but you had no way of knowing that she's been... unwell of late." 

I flinch in empathy. A growing weakness in mental faculties explains everything. "I'm sorry." About a _lot_ of things. 

The First Lady sighs and glances aside. "All of this is at least partially my fault. First off, I'm not in the habit of lending my jewelry, much less the personal gifts. But I didn't want to turn Sylvie down; she's emotionally - delicate these days. This afternoon was more of the same: in one moment she would thank me for the loan, and in the next she'd go on about how much she liked it. I really didn't want to start the whole cycle over again. I just figured she would assume that she had in fact given it back to me, as she was intending to do all along. I never thought she'd jump to the conclusion that it had been stolen." 

But Mrs. Ouellet did... and so did I. I can't repress a shudder of self-reproach. 

"Naturally, she didn't want to lose something so valuable, no matter who owned it. In fact, she flew into such a panic, the idea that she _lost_ it probably never occurred to her. She at once told the closest agent around, who told Ron." 

Who came straight to me. He didn't approach Mrs. Ouellet for confirmation; that would be tantamount to questioning her word. Nor did he speak to "Regina." Not until he had all the facts and the anticipated innocent explanation - or else the culprit. 

Of course, having been the resident shadow this afternoon, I was the logical source for information... although not the info he expected! 

Talk about _all_ of us jumping to conclusions. 

"Regina" is watching me again. "Given that impression, I can see how you arrived at the conclusion you did." 

I can't meet her eye. Even though she's well aware of it by now, I can't bring myself to admit that I had actually _believed_ her capable of... 

"Which brings us back to the reason why you tried so hard to convict yourself." 

I close my eyes in shame. Now I _am_ guilty. "Ma'am... I am just so sorry to have -" 

"Colleen." Her gentle voice forces me to look. Her expression has softened. "I'm not going to criticize you for believing the evidence as you witnessed it." 

I can feel myself flushing again. "That's hardly sufficient excuse for my even _contemplating_ such a thing!" 

"Leaving that point aside, what was your immediate response? To take the blame yourself. You were prepared to throw away your whole life rather than let any criticism come to me. Exactly the same way you've always been willing to protect me from _physical_ harm. Should I condemn you for either?" 

Silence. I'm almost staggering here. She doesn't mind that I believed in her guilt enough to act upon it? 

She's smiling. 

"On the contrary. I'm quite humbled by this proof that even in our most human moments we can still inspire such loyalty. You've got my personal gratitude." 


	20. I, Lifesaver 20

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 20 ~ 

November 2001 

For all the pride Americans have in their strong and vibrant country, visiting Europe can be a rather humbling experience. More than one nation there has been established for well over a thousand years. That sheer weight of history makes our two short centuries seem just a bit paltry by comparison. 

Germany is a fine example. It's so ancient, so different... so captivating. I'm almost frantic to do some exploring in what little time off a member of "Eagle" detail can hope for during a state visit. Just maybe the day after tomorrow... 

Of course I see a lot when I'm following The Man everywhere. The people parade their very best before him, especially in ceremony and tradition. Still, what he sees is more than a bit whitewashed. I like to get out there and meet the common citizen, see the simpler places, touch the everyday culture that a world leader is almost always denied. 

Come to think of it, things aren't so much different at home. There are places right in DC itself where the motorcade never goes - not out of fear so much as distaste. It's just the brutal reality of life. 

Foreign trips are always hectic. Especially when the language is different, and even more especially when the approach to security is different. At times like this, night work on the road can be a peaceful reprieve. You never let your guard down, day _or_ night... but in the evening you can stand quietly instead of rushing about, and you can listen to the pleasant sounds of the night rather than the harsh noises of midday - 

"Golfer to Reilly." 

What did I just say about the noises of the day? Time for our mobile HQ to log in. "Reilly here." 

Another point about foreign trips: they are so busy, and so tricky, that all agents present have to work double shifts. So I end up alternating between "Leanne" during the President's daytime appearances, and "Colleen" after he and his staff finally turn in. This just keeps getting weirder and weirder; half the time I have to stop and remind myself exactly who I am. 

"The Crown signal-board operator just called. Eagle was on the phone a few minutes ago. The line is still open... but no one is talking now." 

Huh? He made a call... he's not talking anymore... but he didn't hang up... 

I'm not springing right into Alert mode. Rather, concern is starting to build, and _build..._

This could easily be a very simple thing - but it all too easily might _not_ be. 

"On my way. Get the other exterior posts to cover for me." 

"Big ten. Out." 

Take no chances. _Run._

There are three possibilities. One: "Eagle" forgot to hang up somehow. Two: "Eagle" is deliberately keeping the line open, because either he or the other party _wants_ it open. 

Three: something is preventing "Eagle" from hanging up - and that something would almost certainly prevent him from seeking help as well. 

A few minutes ago... 

If the third option, then there are only two further possibilities: he's medically unwell - or he's under physical assault. 

Butterfield's already done his double shift today. No time to get him out of bed; that's why they called me. I'm the shift supervisor tonight. But I know my boss will be on his way regardless, in a _very_ short time, if I don't prove that this isn't serious. _Fast._

A few minutes ago... 

There's the suite door. The agent outside has already reacted to my rapid footsteps, and he heard the message to me on the common channel anyway. 

"Karl. Any sign of a problem?" 

He shakes his head warily. "Everything's quiet." 

I'm staring at that door. _What's beyond it?_

A President asleep? Awake? Ill? _Injured?_

Is he even in there at all? 

Is he _alive?_

Karl can't leave his post, unless it's a crisis - and we don't know that yet. 

I don't want to barge into the sacrosanct executive suite uninvited, unless it's a crisis - and we don't know that yet. 

A few minutes ago... 

There's already been a substantial delay. Any longer could be fatal - _if it isn't already!_

Modesty versus security... 

Better fallout to me than harm to him. Karl says nothing as I draw my weapon and reach for the doorknob. 

Speed _and_ silence are required here. If "Eagle" is just asleep, I might be able to sneak out unnoticed. If he needs help, though, then both of us __will benefit from a bit of stealth. I've got no idea what awaits me.

The sitting room is dark, but one small light stays on permanently and I can see quite well. We always make sure of that in advance... just as we make sure there are no other ways in. 

Nope; nobody here. 

It's totally quiet; I don't hear any moment at all. 

I don't smell anything out of place; not chloroform, not gunpowder... not blood... 

I don't feel any presence or miasma that doesn't belong... 

I know my way around; "Eagle" detail has to check out _everything_ ahead of time. The bedroom is behind that closed door. I balance on the balls of my feet, trying to glide so that the floor doesn't creak - my pistol and me ready for instant action. May the _hinges_ not creak... 

The bedside lamp is on, casting a gentle radiance. 

He's there. Propped up in bed. 

His eyes are closed. 

The phone receiver is resting under his chin. 

Don't jump to conclusions. Sweep the room. If, despite all our precautions, an enemy agent did get in here, he or she knows that a _Service_ agent has to show up soon - and has to be eliminated. And what better decoy to rivet my attention than The Man himself? 

No one. The window is secure; the air is still. The only sound is his breathing. 

_He's breathing._ Okay, worst possibility refuted. I let out a slow, quiet breath of my own. 

But there are other potential factors that still need to be eliminated. I creep closer until I'm standing right over my President. 

He's wearing blue pajamas. His arms are resting on top of the covers. His hair is tousled. His features are relaxed. His breathing sounds regular and normal, not as though he's sick - or drugged - or hurt. 

I look around again, just to be absolutely sure... but he and I are definitely alone. 

Okay, I'm feeling relieved, foolish _and_ embarrassed right now. 

No emergency. Everything's fine. He's okay. 

And I'm at risk of disturbing his rest. 

He never sleeps on "Angel;" he has to be exhausted. He must have completed his call earlier, and then dozed off before he could move to hang up. As simple and innocent as that. 

But when you're the single most powerful individual in the world, the slightest lapse can have echoing effects. 

He sure looks peaceful. When he's awake he's so filled with purpose, and all too often urgency as well. Here, in this small lamp's glow, the lines on his face and the gray at his temples are smoothed and softened. 

I'd lay odds he was talking to his wife. A perfect note to fall asleep on. 

What do I do now? Leave the phone where it is and get out of here before I wake him? Or take a chance and see if I can hang it up myself? 

The minutes are flying by; I have to get outside and radio the okay before someone has a coronary. But hanging up should only take another few seconds, and we'd all feel better knowing that the line is closed. For safety his calls always go through "Crown," no matter where he is; still, even a secure channel shouldn't be left open. 

This calls for a delicate touch. I holster my weapon, hold my breath and slowly, carefully lean forward. The receiver is on his opposite shoulder, just within reach - 

Suddenly every nerve in my body freezes. I can _feel_ his eyes upon me. 

_Caught!_ I draw back at once. 

His vision is clear and bright. And startled, and suspicious. 

Well, how would _I_ feel if I woke up to find a dark shadow looming over me, its hand almost on my throat? And he knows that he's a target every day of his life! 

All I can say right now is, what a good thing "Eagle" isn't security-conditioned. _My_ reaction would be a lot less reserved. At least I'd already put my gun away so he didn't see _that!_

"I-I'm sorry, sir. Your phone is off the hook. I was just going to hang it up for you." Lordy, I feel uncomfortable. This is _way_ too intimate a setting for a male protectee and a female protector. Never mind _who_ my protectee is. 

As I watch, recognition, then understanding, then calm march across his famous features in visible sequence. He's getting the idea. It's not that I want to fawn over him even to _this_ extremity; it's that I was concerned something had happened to him. 

"Oh... Good." 

That's all the permission I need. I ease the phone away from him and place it in its cradle. One less thing to worry about. 

I look back. His eyes are closed again, and from his deepening respirations he's back to sleep already. Splendid. I take the liberty of turning off the lamp as well, with only the merest click. 

Please God, don't let him remember any of this... 

* * *

November 2001 

_Why_ didn't I keep my big mouth shut on "Angel" the other month? Believe me, I've asked myself that quite often of late. 

Right now it's just me and my President, walking through the Residence. Which means that "Eagle" can afford to give me his entire attention. 

More often than not it's a pleasure to be lectured to by him. All information is useful at some point, and he does have a powerful gift for speaking. But when the same subject goes on long enough... or returns often enough... 

This afternoon it's quantum physics. Again. Now one can debate this issue all day and still not run out of material for speculation. However, you can cover the "what if" factor only so often before it becomes simple variations on a theme. Hypothetically speaking... 

"Colleen, are you listening to me?" 

"Yes, sir - as well as I am able." Although if he demands that I repeat his last comment, I'll flunk out disastrously. "I just can't afford to get too engrossed in any topic for _too_ long." 

"Aw, you're just using your job as an excuse to ignore me." I glance at him, trying to mask my guilt with indignation. He sounds like he's joking, but I'll bet he spots that guilt anyway. "You do this whenever you know I'm right." 

_Patience._ "Technically, sir, I _am_ supposed to ignore you." It'll needle him just a bit if I don't rise to the bait of his last line. "But you know that I seldom _do_ ignore you." I've been roped into more than a few of these lectures in recent memory. "I'm not trying to deny myself some excellent education here." Which is true; a lot of our talks really are interesting. "I just need to keep an eye out at the same time." 

"Get real. What can possibly happen inside the White House?" 

I don't deign to answer that. He's kidding, and we both know it. However minuscule the chance, my colleagues and I have to be here anyway. Just in case. 

"Come on. This is _fascinating_ stuff!" Huh; I'd almost say "Eagle" sounds literally desperate for some response. I'm beginning to suspect that he gets even less enthusiasm out of his regular listeners on _this_ debate than on most of his other choices. 

Maybe if _I_ don't humor him, either... 

Oh, what the hell. It's a real delight to talk casually with this extraordinary man, quite aside from a huge privilege. Yes, even when he's taxing my mental endurance. There are moments when I can almost - _almost_ \- relax around him. Like a friend. 

Whoa. Strangeness. Little me, a virtual nobody in the grand scheme of things, friends with the President of the United States? As if it isn't already more than enough that I'm allowed to be near him, to observe him from not that great a distance, to _safeguard_ him. A lot of people would kill for this kind of opportunity. 

Ouch; bad word choice. Certain expressions are _not_ welcome around here. 

As a matter of fact, it's even more the truth politically than literally. The lengths people will go to sometimes, either in support _or_ in opposition, is unnerving. 

"Quite frankly, sir, I find the whole concept just a bit unnerving. To think of what might happen if I walked out of this building and turned left instead of right... In one direction is a winning lottery ticket on the ground, and in the other an assault?" That came out unbidden, but I still can't forget how close Brian and I once came to the latter. "What a slender thread that would be to rule one's fate. As if there's no God at all - only chance." 

"But you see, the trick is not to apply it so literally." Uh-oh; he's found his second wind, thanks to me. I _definitely_ should've kept my mouth shut. "You have to be able to wander down the different paths of recent events without getting too caught up in -" 

"Excuse me, Mr. President." 

Whoops; I didn't hear Donnie come down the stairs after us. I let my guard down. Even for "Eagle," whom I admire, respect, almost revere, and genuinely like, I must not let my guard down. _Especially_ not for him. Damn! 

"Call for you, sir." My comrade extends one of our ultra-high-tech cellular phones. "The line is secure." 

If this can't wait until he reaches his own phone in the Oval... I'm not liking the possibilities. 

A death... a war... 

Without doubt, "Eagle" is thinking the very same thing. 

Wow. It's like watching a portcullis crash down to protect the castle from invasion. Amusement and relaxation vanish like smoke, and the executive mask slams firmly into place. He can be every bit as braced and focused as any of his elite bodyguards at their best. 

I move a few steps away. Whatever it is, it's either very personal... or else of international import and far beyond my comprehension - 

"Charlie Papa to Reilly." 

Meanwhile, I have just been presented with my own professional issues - which are naturally beneath the notice of the President. Another couple of steps is warranted, so that my voice doesn't distract him from his own business. "Reilly here." 

"There was an incident at Horseradish. Regina suffered a leg fracture." 

_"What?"_ Hey, I _should_ keep my voice down here, and in particular around _him_ \- 

"WHAT?" Uh-oh; that was an executive bellow. 

I turn back... just as "Eagle" turns to me as well. His mouth is open; his eyes are wide. I bet my expression is no different. We both know that the other just got the very same message. 

Dear heavens, what happened to her _this_ time - 

"It was a simple hiking mishap. Her injury is not serious. She'll leave for DC shortly." 

Long breath. Thank the Lord for small blessings... 

And this time "Regina" detail and "Crown" arranged to tell us simultaneously, so that I wouldn't have to tell him myself. I'm definitely going to have to thank someone. 

"No. Tell her to stay put. I'm coming _there_." 

_That_ wasn't me - but the command post must've heard it anyway. The iron resolve in our leader's voice plows through any hint of proposed objection, from _any_ source. 

Oh, great. I'm going to have to take a direct hand in this after all. Brace for impact... 

"Sir, it's better that you don't." 

God, his eyes are like sword-blades when he's really mad. 

" _You're_ saying that it's _better_ for me _not_ to go to my wife when she's _hurt?_ " Between those eyes and that tone, I feel like I've been nailed to the wall behind me. 

There's pain in his vision, too. As though I of all people should have the grace to understand both Bartlets by now... and instead, I'm letting them down. 

Swallow. _Breathe._ "No, _sir_." Speak fast, get it out, head him off - "It's absolutely vital that you be with her, and she with you." My, what a personal observation from a mere bodyguard, even me. Move on - "What I'm saying is, it's better that she come here rather than you going there. Arranging the security ahead of you takes longer than clearing the way for your wife. The fastest method to get you to her is to fly her to _you_." 

My channel is still open, of course, and I know he hasn't hung up his line either. Our two contacts are getting both sides of our conversation, real-time. Whatever remains, once the dust of battle in this corridor has settled, we'll be well on our way to coordinating both ends. 

"Eagle" hesitates; he can't deny that I have a point. Then: "No, she shouldn't travel. And Manchester is far more restful than the White House. It won't take me _that_ much longer to get there." He's shifting his feet, as though one short second from take-off. 

Okay, this is hypothesis on my part, but I'd bet my pension that I'm right. "Sir, I think right now she'd rather be here anyway... where it's safer." 

_That_ brings him to a halt. Of course right now he _and_ I are virtually reliving the emotions behind her abduction last June. In all honestly, the First Lady coming here would be reassuring for us as well as herself. 

A very tense silence. I know exactly what members of the bomb squad feel like, trying to diffuse an explosive... 

Then The Man sighs - almost in defeat. "The only problem with that reasoning is, I have to stay here and wait. _Again._ " 

I can't prevent a wince. Memories... "Regina's" not the only one who took a few scars last June. 

From the brief nod he now gives me, I know he saw that wince... and that he appreciates my empathy. 

Then he looks off into the distance. "We were talking about quantum mechanics. What might have happened, if Abbey had taken a slightly different route for her stroll today?" 

I fight down a shiver. She might have easily avoided injury altogether... or, she might have run into trouble a lot worse. 

As for the other theory that _I_ have, I'm not sure if I should mention it just yet. He'd like it _and_ hate it. Yes, Manchester would be a more relaxing, more secluded place - for both of them. But now is not the most convenient time for him to be away from "Crown." Of course he won't even consider a political obstacle tonight... yet it's the unvarnished truth. 

I suspect that his wife knows this as well, and is making the trip to DC as much for his sake as her own. 


	21. I, Lifesaver 21

**I, Lifesaver**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** A unique tour of duty with a unique member of the United States Secret Service.  
**Written:** Feb, 02  
**Author's Note:** Sequel to "The Other Half of My Soul" Time index: Nov. 1998 - Dec. 2001; covers 3 years, from Bartlet's first election to his third Christmas in the White House. 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 21 ~ 

December 2001 

I declare, the man has no sense. Or else no fear. Is he _trying_ to get himself killed? 

_Why_ won't he listen to us? Election year or no - 

Technically, we take orders from _him_. But in matters of security, who's the expert around here? 

Strike one: he's out in the open, broad daylight, and there are thick crowds on all sides where any number of gunmen could be hiding. Oh, sure, we've got guys everywhere on the ground _and_ on the rooftops, looking in every possible direction, but still... 

Strike two: he's decided, on the spur of the moment, to leave the secure podium area and walk the rope lines. Despite his known love for doing just that, he'd said earlier that he wouldn't today. We should know better by now: for him, it's almost an addiction. 

Strike three: it's barely a week to Christmas, and it's _cold_ out here. Our President is from storm-blasted New England. I'm from sunny Texas. 

Okay, girl, enough seditious thoughts aimed at your Commander-in-Chief. Just stick with him and do your job. 

Security is as tight as it can be in such a situation - which is to say, nowhere near tight enough. What's more, it's entirely too easy for us to get caught up in the spirit of the crowd. By all evidence, they absolutely love him. Forget the grand jury nonsense; forget the months of bad press. These folks have gathered because they want to hear him, to be near him. And now they're nearer than they'd dared to hope. Not only does "Eagle" rarely give an open-air address at all, but this time he did so on the steps of "Punchbowl" itself, and few things can make a more impressive and patriotic backdrop. Never mind the captivating way he speaks, his energy and strength and sincerity. The sheer exuberance all around us is almost visible. 

To cap it off, now he's staged the equivalent of a royal walkabout. You'd think he _wants_ to make life harder for those of us who are doing our level best to keep him safe. 

I tell you, at times like this we're just about ready to kill him ourselves. 

We've got one ring around him: a tight one. But that ring has to part at _some_ point if he's going to actually see the people, much less shake hands. I'm hanging back this time, more with the trailing staff than with my colleagues - I'd really stand out in that knot of dark business suits, and standing out is the last thing I'm supposed to do. There's another ring, a larger and slightly less constricting one, around all of us as well, so I'm sort of between the primary and secondary lines of defense. Placed right where no bodyguard would be expected right now. 

"Stagecoach" is _that_ way. Of course "Eagle" deliberately heads the _other_ way. This was not planned in advance, hence the barriers along this stretch of crowd are literally a line of rope rather than steel fencing. But, short of hauling him back by the scruff of the neck, there's not much we can do except follow, stay close, and watch. 

All right, cool it: a bodyguard shouldn't think such disrespectful thoughts of her protectee. Even if he _is_ the President of the United States. 

The cheers are deafening. Flags and hats and God knows what else are waving like mad. Of course it's the _what else_ that has us worried. And yet, it's so heart-warming to witness such a show of support - especially now. Whatever he may have done wrong in legal interpretation or in public opinion, a lot of voters still like their leader. A lot. 

Or, for that matter, perhaps it's his notoriety as much as anything else. Or maybe just the prestige of his office. After all, if given half a chance, most people wouldn't hesitate to shake the hand of the leader of the free world. 

As for The Man himself, he's always been a people person. Some politicians don't handle the crowds all that well; it just isn't in their nature. "Eagle" has never had that problem. Oh, he's got lots of other virtues and talents going for him, but the one that shines most right now is just how much he loves being among his constituents. And for him, every single American citizen falls into that category. 

Here's another point: he is so isolated at times, so unreachable by the common Joe on the street, that when the slightest opportunity to reach out on his part comes along he seizes it at once. Then, too, considering the morass of legal and constitutional trouble he's wading through, and no doubt will be for some time yet, such enthusiasm is like water in the desert. No matter what the press and the government itself may say, there are still people out there who trust him to do his job, and are saying right now and to his face that he's doing it right. 

But I wonder if there isn't another, even more vital aspect. When you're essentially in control of immense power and enormous wealth, it must get very easy to generalize in terms of the whole country. How much simpler to lump everyone together, to argue by statistics, to deal only with abstracts... to forget that the whole point of it is to make life better for the little people who never make the headlines, whether living around the block or half a continent away. Simpler, less taxing for the mind... less difficult for the conscience. 

Yet one more reason for "Eagle" to meet these people head-on, and to remember that he must never overlook the human element of federal policy-making. 

Well, he certainly got his chance today. We're walking down a ten-foot-wide path that's hemmed in on both sides by a solid jam of screaming faces. What movie star could hope for a better turnout? And what bodyguard could be more anxious? There's always the lurking possibility that one person in this crush is suicidal enough to try something. Then factor in "Eagle's" carefree approach to the whole thing. He hasn't stopped smiling _or_ moving, first reaching for the forest of hands on his right and then striding towards those on his left. I can see the agents closest to him bobbing back and forth in near-desperation. 

However, there's one point about which I have not the slightest doubt. "Eagle" is not thinking, "I'm safe; my bodyguards will protect me." No - I _know_ he's thinking, "I'm safe; my fellow Americans don't want to hurt me." In his view, he's not risking agents' lives carelessly. He never does. Fear is the last thing on his mind. Anyone with an ounce of concern for physical safety would never try a stunt like this. I wonder if that even occurs to him most of the time. The leader of a nation can't show fear in public, anyway. 

Still, a lot of us are heartily wishing he'd show a bit more _prudence_ at least... 

An additional problem with him on the move like this, rather than standing still at a microphone, is that I'm watching his back - literally. I can't turn around and sweep faces or territory the same way the guys on the outer ring are; that would not fit into my role. I'm giving my peripheral vision a real workout, but I have comparatively little freedom of movement. There has to be _some_ way I can make myself useful and try to cut down on the danger factor a lit - 

A man brushes past me - 

_ALERT._ He's a stranger, and I can _feel_ his deadly intent. 

I don't need to see a weapon; he reeks of malice. _No delay._ Two fast strides bring me level with him - and within six feet of his only likely target. In one motion I kick out, tripping him up, and at the same time slam the edge of my clipboard into the back of his neck. 

He drops like a stone. Like a pole-axed ox, my father would've said. If I judged my force accurately, he was unconscious before he hit the ground. 

At once I step back and resume my role, hoping no one else noticed my departure from it. If there's another attacker, "Leanne" might still be overlooked, and thus useful. 

"Oh, dear, are you all right?" 

In the constant roar of the crowd, only those right next to me and those with earphones hear this prearranged signal of mine. Faster than you can describe it, two agents appear out of nowhere. Our other colleagues at once stiffen to even higher alertness. 

"Intruder inside the circle!" I fight down a wince at this shrill squawk in my ear. 

He's definitely out, offering no resistance at all as my fast-arriving friends stoop to take charge, exactly as they would if someone in the crowd collapsed with a heart attack. 

"Suspect unconscious and in custody." 

As they lift him by both arms, a revolver tumbles from nerveless fingers. 

Instantly I drop my clipboard, as though startled by his total limpness. I've practiced _this_ move, too. The bulletproof shield opens like a book and lands right over the firearm, hiding it completely. Almost certainly no one else got a glimpse of it. 

Then I scramble to recover my possession with every appearance of flustered fear... invisibly gathering up the gun as well. 

"One handgun, retrieved." 

For an extra instant, we bodyguards freeze into relative stillness, eyes flashing in all directions. The ring around "Eagle" clamps shut like a trap, suddenly barring all access and sealing him inside a wall of black suits. Where there's one killer, there might all too easily be more. Every one of us is braced for immediate and violent action - 

For once, this solid jam of people will work to our advantage. It's frightfully easy to duck under these simple lines of cable, which is obviously what our captive did... but getting to the _front_ of the line means pushing between bodies with virtually no space to spare between them. That's the sort of thing we'd spot at once. 

Which means our intended assassin was already in place the whole time, just waiting for his chance to act... 

_"No advance."_ Either our prisoner is acting alone, or else his confederates aren't trying anything in turn. Perhaps they saw what happened to this guy - or, perhaps they have _no_ idea what happened. That is exactly where we'd like to keep them: in the dark. So long as they're unsure about their partner's fate, they're far less prone to act themselves. 

"Come on, get him to the ambulance," one of the supporting agents calls out, calmly. A panic in this crush we do not want, and not because of "Eagle's" political image. Besides, we can keep the suspect under lock and key just as easily in that rolling hospital, _and_ out of sight. He's picked up and carried away, in the eyes of the public just an exuberant Bartlet fan whose constitution, unfortunately, wasn't up to all the excitement. 

"Move Eagle to Stagecoach, NOW." 

I'm too busy looking obviously bewildered, and secretly scanning the packed faces, to watch the scene just ahead, but I know Butterfield has already told our leader, "Sir, we have to go," in a tone that no sane person dares oppose. That tone endorses the abrupt closing of ranks moments before. Something is drastically wrong, and the Service has taken charge. 

Studying "Eagle" now, you'd never guess that anything had changed. He knows there was a threat; he knows we're in control of the situation; he knows no one was hurt, since there's no mad scramble for cover; he knows that he has nothing to fear. He just keeps smiling all the while, waves his regrets to those he now won't get to meet, and heads back towards his car. Surrounded a good bit tighter than before. _Not_ stopping to shake hands this time. 

Falling in behind again, I see several suspicious glances pass between members of his staff. Most of them probably saw the stranger on the ground, _among our ranks_ , where no stranger is ever permitted. Far too close to the President. That can only mean an attempt of some kind. But they wisely say nothing. The Service is on it. The Man is safe, and will be even safer in one more minute; the spectators won't stampede and injure each other; the cameras won't have _another_ very near miss in full public view to distract viewers from the campaign itself; and any additional enemies won't be handed a veritable riot with which they can mask a second strike. 

However, I do note that, one and all, the staffers move closer to their leader on every side. None of them are trained for this, but that minor detail won't stop them from protecting him themselves, any way they can. 

As for me, I'm trying not to shake. "Leanne" would have every reason to tremble with the knowledge of "Eagle's" close call, but that's not it. As we step smartly for the motorcade, as security subtly closes in even more, as everyone pretends that all is well, I clutch my clipboard (with the intended murder-weapon pinned inside) and wonder if I look as pale as I feel. That gunman must have been waiting there for ages, hoping against hope that his target would happen to come his way. What if "Eagle" had chosen to go left instead of right at that particular spot, and started shaking hands directly beside his waiting enemy? 

And what other assailants might be in the crowd right now, likewise scattered along the barricades, in case he came _their_ way instead? 

I hear the limo door slam. _He's safe._

I'm relieved beyond words that, when the instant of crisis burst upon us, I reacted swiftly and correctly. And I'm terrified of what so nearly was. I was philosophizing on federal politics and our President's unique situation, and almost _didn't_ react in time. 

Just a moment's inattention: that's all it takes to determine a man's life... and a nation's future... 

* * *

December 2001 

"Batman" replaces his phone in its cradle. "You can go on in." 

His faint smile suggests that he's seen a lot of people wait for those words with at least equal apprehension. I just nod, take a deep breath, and enter the Oval. 

"Leanne!" Seated at his desk, surrounded by the inevitable briefs, "Eagle" waves me over. He's getting better at this constant switch of identities... even though no one else is present. 

"Mr. President." I close the door carefully behind me and advance. I just can't ignore how my feet sink perceptively into this magnificent royal blue carpet. If I didn't know that each administration gets a totally new one at the start, I don't think I'd dare walk on it. 

He removes his reading glasses, rises and comes around the edge of that desk. Something about this relaxed, jacket-less, hands-in-pockets attitude really captures my attention. So does the faint smile _he's_ wearing. He stops at the beautifully stitched Seal, and waits, until I feel compelled to approach to within a few feet. What do you suppose he has in mind this - 

"You're standing under the mistletoe." 

I swear, I almost got whiplash from looking up so fast, in a bolt of emotion suspiciously close to dread. 

But all that's above me is the relief image of the Seal in the elegant plaster ceiling. No hint of green foliage anywhere. 

And just after my _previous_ fright today, too! 

When I look back, more than a bit nervously, that executive grin is at full wattage. "I've had women faint dead away when I say that." 

Um... I rather doubt he's tried it on _too_ many women around here. Only those he knows really well, and who really know _him_. Besides, it might get back to "Regina." 

"Eagle" is plainly savoring my expression. "You still went kinda pale. I'm beginning to wonder: is something wrong with _me?_ " 

I don't know where my voice went, but fortunately it's back now. "Sir, I will leap between you and any possible danger with no thought for my own welfare. However, I know I won't survive an assault by the First Lady." Best to keep it light, same as him. 

He chuckles. "Neither would I." 

I can't stop myself from glancing around, just to make sure no other trap is waiting for me. Honestly, I have _no_ idea what I would've done right then had he been telling the truth. 

"Does Charlie keep smelling salts in his desk, just in case?" 

His brows rise. "Not a bad idea, now that you mention it..." 

Then the general air of entertainment fades, expended. "Speaking of leaping in front of danger..." 

Ah, here's the real reason I was summoned. I can feel my face heating up already. 

"All of you did a great job today. And discreetly at that. Excellent work." 

There's a special softness to his expression that I've seen exactly once before. How do you thank someone for saving your life? 

He's certainly learning... but then, the "Nighthawk" incident wasn't malicious intent. 

"Still, I wanted to give you my personal gratitude. I'm told you really lit into the perp. It's a wonder you didn't snap his neck." 

So this is how he deals with it: don't let the severity of the topic linger. It's a blunt fact of political power that he has to face. Not that it lessens his gratefulness any, I'm sure. 

"My pleasure, sir." And it was. If I can capture a would-be assassin alive for questioning and sentencing, perfect. If I have no choice but to kill him, or her, then so be it. But _no one_ is going to hurt my President while I've got breath in my body. I'm fully confident of that. 

"Eagle" nods, probably reading into the nuances in my voice. "I gathered." His head tilts a few degrees, evaluating and comical both. "You're making quite a habit of this." 

It's a curse of my heritage; I blush easily. Especially when people bring _that_ up. "The last occasion really doesn't count, sir. You evened up the score on the spot." 

"Yeah, but I don't get half the opportunities _you_ do." As if he _should_. I have to choke down a laugh. "Anyway, it looks like you're in luck again. If we're going to keep today out of the papers, I can't embarrass you with a public award _this_ time, either." 

His grin widens even more at my sigh of relief. "It doesn't take public acclaim to encourage me to do my job, sir. In fact, I can do it much better _without_ such acclaim." 

"Fine. Spoil my fun." 

Amusement aside, I still feel kind of awkward. Forget that I'm paid to risk my life for him; I _want_ to risk my life for him. This is very difficult for the protector and the protectee to discuss. 

Then he switches gears and starts to pace, slow and thoughtful. 

"You know, after almost three years in this office, I still can't quite understand why anyone would hate me or envy me that much. If they want to express their opinions, I'll listen. If they think they can do a better job, they should audition for the part." He pauses, shaking his head ruefully. "Although if they knew about the crap I go through on a daily basis, they'd soon change their minds." 

It seems an indelible part of human nature to covet other people's possessions or status, just because said possessions or status are thought to be slightly better than one's own. 

"Never mind the danger," I add. 

"Exactly. But that's the way of the world. Its leaders have to be protected in order to lead." The Man casts his gaze out the windows onto the South Lawn. 

"I refuse to be coerced into even greater security measures. Or to lose sleep over my general safety. Or to let concern for my safety keep me from doing the best job I possibly can. For the people." His voice is iron-firm. I wonder if he's momentarily forgotten that I'm in the room. This has the steely ring of a solemn vow before God Himself. 

Then, even in near-profile, I catch the glint in his eye. "Besides, no one else is _allowed_ to kill me. That's a privilege reserved by my wife, for the next time I do something stupid." 

The giggle slips out before I can bite it back. He doesn't look my way, yet his shoulders shift in a brief snicker of agreement. 

I am just so impressed. He was one bare inch from being murdered this morning, and he knows it. Yet it failed utterly to shake his composure, his philosophical acceptance of an ugly reality, his dedication to his office, or his trust in me and my colleagues. The fact that he's been shot before hasn't weakened his resolve or his mental stability - if anything, quite the reverse. Also, from the moment he considered accepting this supreme position, he knew that being a target was a virtual certainty, an occupational hazard. Perhaps that certainty, and the fatalistic resignation it can create, has helped inure him and prepare him for whatever might come. 

In this quiet between us, I can _feel_ my leader's courage and conviction. If he yielded to the natural desire for self-preservation, he'd have no hope of doing his job. Same as the Service. We exist solely for the benefit of others, no matter the huge risk to ourselves. 

Hm; our two very different roles have more in common than I ever guessed. 

And he will not give his self-proclaimed enemies the ultimate victory of scaring him, either. I wasn't close enough to see this attitude after Rosslyn, but I sure get it now. 

In fact... it's as though he actually believes that no one _can_ kill him, that he's convinced he won't die in such a violent and senseless manner. Is this like a kind of self-hypnosis, so that he can ignore the crippling terror of assassination, simply because he can't function any other way? Or is it pure faith? Even... a genuine prescience? 

Suddenly I'm just itching to ask - to have the _nerve_ to ask such a personal question of him. 

"So." "Eagle" rotates back towards me. He probably doesn't realize it, but from my perspective he's framed perfectly by the American and the Presidential flags on either side of his magnificent desk, and the afternoon sunshine makes the windows behind him glow... almost as though _he_ were the source of that golden light. Woo. 

"I'd say our experiment is a success. It looks like we're all set for the campaign in _that_ regard, at least. Are you ready to let me drag you all over the country?" 

I have to force a breath past this awe-inspiring image before me. 

"Absolutely, Mr. President. And straight back to the White House again, too!" 

* * *

December 2001 

Homeward bound. There's a bit of daylight in the sky yet, I'm off duty, and "Eagle's" words of thanks are still ringing in my ears. For the close call earlier, and for the near-euphoria I'm feeling right now, I definitely should not be working tonight. 

This will be my third Christmas in "Crown," but the breathtaking décor in the State Rooms amazes me anew each time. Still, I agree totally with the Bartlets wanting to get away to Manchester for a little while; this is really too elaborate to live with day in and day out. When every branch of holly and every tree ornament has an historic value, how can you possibly relax and feel at home? 

One bonus is that I get to go with "Eagle" on his annual covert holiday shopping trip tomorrow. That is going to be so much fun! Since he has no hope of just wandering casually through the malls, he must love how private businesses will drop everything for a secret executive visit. Of course they can't hang a sign in their window saying _The President shopped here,_ but the boost to their personal pride is currency enough. And it's one small perk for The Man who holds down the hardest job in the country. 

Whoa... I just had a flash. The very best camouflage for one of the most instantly recognizable faces around is to hide it behind _another_ instantly recognizable image. If "Eagle" wanted to move around with total freedom, all he'd have to do is dress up like Santa. No one could possibly know him. Hell, they'd _never_ expect the leader of the free world to do such a thing. And he wouldn't, anyway. 

Or _would_ he? It'd be a question of dignity versus his innate sense of humor - and _that_ has no limits. 

I can just see his detail all costumed as reindeer. Maybe _I_ at least can be an elf instead... 

Heavens, what a thought. If he ever does, I have _got_ to be there! 

Okay, enough of that. I'd better stop before I give myself fits of laughter in public and my fellow pedestrians start to wonder if I'm loopy or something. 

At least it's not as cold out when you move briskly. I wonder if we'll have snow in time? I can brave the chill for the sake of a white Christmas. They were pretty rare back home. 

The entire Bartlet clan will gather here for a few days around the New Year. They never miss out on this extraordinary chance to be in the White House, even briefly. Of course, that number of visitors, and relatives to boot - only some of whom are regularly entitled to protection, and therefore used to it - will create a lively time for us as well. 

"Eagle's" fourth State of the Union is coming up in late January; I've heard his senior staff talking about it already. Please God, may it not be his _last!_ And this time, as part of his detail, I get to stand right there _inside_ the Chamber. Can't _wait!_

I have to say, I am not looking forward to the end of my three-year stint in "Crown." Another six months, that's all... It's a policy precaution against burnout, but I find the time has gone by rather quickly. Despite the stresses, the constant state of alertness, and the genuine emergencies, I really do like it. Maybe I can wrangle another spell here after a year's break or so. 

Assuming "Eagle" wins re-election, that is. If he doesn't, I have no doubt that my desire to return will drop right off. It just wouldn't be the same. 

The Bartlets are truly amazing people. Not because they're famous and powerful, but because they're _them_. Their fame just helps more people to notice how amazing they are. Same goes for their staff: wonderful, dedicated, talented people all. It makes you wonder how many other terrific folks are in the world that you'll never meet, or even know about. In a way, it's a real shame. _Every_ life has intrinsic value. 

Hey... even if he does lose, he and his family will still be under our protection for pretty much the rest of their lives. And I'm sure this President won't just hide himself away and veg. All of them are too public-minded not to find new ways of serving the people as long as they possibly can. Which means that I can still stand by them as well. It'll be less stressful for us all, and I'll be around genuine _friends_. 

There's always a silver lining. Neither my reassignment nor his retirement has to be a parting of the ways. Not permanently... 

Even so, I pray to God he wins. He deserves it - none more so. 

The rush-hour traffic seems a bit less hectic than usual tonight. I bet a lot of people have already left town for their holiday elsewhere. Brian and I still haven't decided what we'll do or where we'll go. 

One condition: he and I _have_ to attend midnight mass on Christmas Eve at the glorious National Cathedral. I'll be attending St. Martin's with the First Couple the next morning, but there's no avoiding the spotlight when you're with _them_ , even in the parish where they're treated the most normally. Besides, I want one service as _myself_ , with nothing else on my mind. And Bri hasn't been inside the Cathedral before. 

Speaking of my better half, I don't know how I'm going to break today's events to him. He would never endure the added risk of me being on "Eagle" detail in the first place if not for my explicit background role. He's blessed the fact that I wasn't there for Rosslyn, and he still flinches at any reference to "Regina's" abduction last summer. Don't even _hint_ at _Marine One_ around him, either. 

We all did our job today exactly right; there shouldn't be even a whisper in the news. But I'm not going to lie to him, or hide the truth. That's not how a couple endures together. Anyway, he can find comfort in this proof that "Leanne" is very effective camouflage. As planned. 

I find myself automatically scanning faces as I stroll along. When you're off-duty in this career, you still keep your eyes and ears peeled for trouble. Even if it's just some drunk ranting in a bar that the President is a jerk and ought to be shot. There are information lines for citizens to call if they stumble across what they think is a plot in progress, and the Service will investigate anything. We have to. That approach has paid off before... 

Damn it, it's _Christmas_. Peace on earth, the Savior of the world is born. You'd think even killers could take a bit of a vacation, so that _we_ could too - 

A squeal of tires on pavement - 

A child in the street - 

ALERT. No way that skidding car will stop in time. 

I spring forward at once, gaining as much momentum as I can in the few yards I've got. The car is so close - 

A flying tackle is this boy's only chance. Snatch him around the waist in passing. Land underneath. Protect his head. Roll out of the way - 

Got him! He'll be safe - 

// bump // 


End file.
